There is a group. (and i am talking of the congress here). there is a group, And this group represents another time. a time when a gent wore a moustache proud as a medal on his breast pocket. they are a league of twelve year old children, each who sports a strongman moustache, thick and black and curled upwards at the ends. the league is maintained by shaving the upper lip of the blackest haired neighbourhood newborns so that by the time they reach age twelve, puberty or not, upon their lip is a fine fine moustache. this is a league however, filled with malevolent intent. they swarm like some black pest throughout the streets picking clean anything of worth or value or beauty. they move as if with one mind, like ants or starlings on the swoop. god forbid you should stand against them or accidently block their path as they quickly slither through, for everyone knows that one man with a fine moustache is a very powerful thing, but an entire busload is almost invincible. it should be said of course as well as being fear-inducing, it is a wonderful sight, like a black tornado eating up quaint barnyards and bewildered cows. it is a very sad event then, when a day before his 13th birthday the young gent must shave his moustache and retire from the league, his only lagniappe being that he will be provided for by his hairy brothers, and the little pouch sewn to his breast which holds the hairs from off his cold lip.