Byerly is laughing - wildly, not wholly sanely - as Daryl aims wild blows at him. He doesn't stop even when the man's foot hits his chin. He only pauses momentarily, shaking his head to clear the stars from his vision, before he climbs upwards, using his grip to work his way up to sit on top of him.

"You," Byerly declares, leaning his full weight on the man, grabbing for his arms to pin them down, "are fucked." Which is, in essence, what he was saying before. It's just a little simpler now.