"Alright," Apollo laughs, and falls silent for a moment, thinking. After a few more moments of silence, he starts: "There once was a man named Michael, who liked to ride his bicycle. He would quite often ride 'cross the wide countryside 'til the wind turned him to an icicle." This may or may not translate well enough into Mandarin; but the mansion is a wibbly-wobbly sort of place. "Sorry about the limerick, it's not my preferred form of poetry; but that's another story. Limerick prophecies are always some of the worst."