— And theft means my pies.
— Your pies? Why on earth would anyone want to steal your godforsaken pies?
— My pies are the talk of Camelot.
— Oh. Yes, indeed they are — a crust like rusted iron, a filling like last year's horse dung, and the smell — oh, yes — just like the guard house's latrine!
— No one insults my pies and gets away with it!
— Oh, I'm sorry. Should I speak instead of your poisonous flans — like vomit, curdling in the noonday sun — or your dumplings? The king, himself, likened them to freshly lain frog spawn wrapped in pig snot!