"Since it's a cartwheel you've asked for, I'm happy to recite a poem for you."
Boos fill the air, but Timshel bows to them with unflagging good humor. "Ho ho! Best prepare yourselves for more mischief! We fools are a contrary lot."
Timshel draws himself up and closes his eyes, almost managing a graceful stature you've not seen him display before. As he begins to recite, it turns out that Timshel's choice of poem is one you're acquainted with:
"Well Honny Bonny the maiden was alone in a copse of trees,
And in no mood for rendezvous with man or beast, if you please!
Her love had roots and branches, her love had leaves and bark.
Honny Bonny the maiden loved she Maginot the Larch!"
You suppress a shudder. This daft yarn for a courtly audience?
"Then up the…"
You stop stock-still when Timshel's voice ceases, and look over your shoulder. His face is completely impassive, but you can see his widened eyes and the slightly splayed fingertips.
"Far up the branches…"
Burn the bilge, he's forgotten it. A dark pit forms in your stomach.
Onward