Coin first, luck later — that's my liturgy, pigeon. I sell what every one of you secretly wants and publicly denies: powder, ground at dusk; one pinch, and nobody sees you. Gold works as promised. Silver mostly works. Copper buys flour — don't make that face, sparrow, flour is honest work. I deal, I bet, I drink like a village on a saint's day. Wake in the wrong beard, crowing at the sun? Read the rules. Making fools of humans isn't my trade, little sun. It's my tea with jam.