
No one suspects someone wearing brogue shoes.
You act like you are a mainstream person, unaffiliated, uninterested, even with that granddad shirt, but under your pants you're always wearing a bright green kilt. You smoke four leaf clovers and sip Jameson in your den late at night, incense burning to conceal the smell, dreaming of the day when your people shall rise up and be free to be who they wanna be.