He bares his teeth briefly at the poem. He's heard it before, of course he's heard it before, psionics of his caliber had been so rare that it was always assumed he would find his way to a helm after he'd gotten old enough. Everyone had been right, but nobody could have predicted how long he would be a Helmsman.

"Every thhow needth thomeone to perform poorly. Every court needth a jethter, and not all jethterth have to have fathe paint and clubth to be amuthing." He reaches over for a knife, turning it over in his hands and turning his head to look down to it. (He's always, always conscious of his eyes and how he appears.) "But it doeth leave me with an innaccurate title, true."