"What do you know of poetry? Ambrose said without bothering to turn around. "I know a limping verse when I hear it, I said. "But this isn't even limping. A limp has rhythm. This is more like someone falling down a set of stairs. Uneven stairs. With a midden at the bottom. "It is a sprung rhythm, he said, his voice stiff and offended. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. "Sprung? I burst out with an incredulous laugh. "I understand that if I saw a horse with a leg this badly 'sprung,' I'd kill it out of mercy, then burn its poor corpse for fear the local dogs might gnaw on it and die."