my people come from peat bogs. we glimpsed the retreating glaciers leaving depressions, filling with detritus and rain. we trembled with excitement to eat the sour muds. the gods cursed the hairs from our heads and sent them fleeing to our backs and asses, so we would be forever recognized for our atavistic tastes.

our banners are tattered rags.
our words are "We do not bathe."

we were here before you.
we will be here long after you have gone. with your wheels and your televisions and your detergents.