I put him at maybe twenty, he played with his fine bloodwood lute like a thirteen-year-old boy with his cock.” “Artfully?” Jean-François asked. “Constantly. I fucking hate soothsingers. Almost as much as spuds.” “Why?” “Poets are wankers,” Gabriel sighed. “And minstrels are just poets who’re allowed to strum themselves in public. It’s a self-important prat who believes his thoughts are worth putting to parchment, let alone writing a fucking ballad about.”
