As my explanations here are probably above your understandings, lattlebrattons, though as augmentatively uncomparisoned as Cadwan, Cadwallon and Cadwalloner, I shall revert to a more expletive method which I frequently use when I have to sermo with muddlecrass pupils.
-James Joyce, Finnegans Wake, 1939
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You have seven American dollars in your hands, dated around the end of the 19th century. You take them to the Colonial, and the Colonial tells you they are not his. You take them to the Goat, and the Goat tells you they are rare. You take them to the King, he bribes you with his animals. You take them to the Saint, he asks that you seek forgiveness. You take them to the Don, and the Don asks that you leave him be. You take them to the Patron, she tells you she is poor. You take them to the Lord, he tells you to relinquish them.
The dollars in your hands turn to gold dust. The Goat returns, telling you that you have squandered your fortune. He rams into you, and the Colonial says the dust is his now. The King pardons you a cow for the misdeeds committed in the world. The Saint offers you a bowl of contemporary dollars, then takes it away when you reach for it. The Don is nowhere to be found. The Patron asks for your hand. The Lord tells you you should have known better.
Who do you trust?
