Monday, February 12, 2007

the hipster

The Hipster

When he comes to your door,
Wearing a shirt saying “Princess”
Ignore it and let him in,
He is only being ironic,
And you can see how he’s starving

His glasses may take you back
To malt shops and memories
You never really had of drive-ins
And milkshakes made from milk,
The real kind you get from cows.

But his pants, they will take you
To the origins of punk, to
Days of rage, inflation and stagnation,
Rotting tenement houses burning down
Homeless heroin bums spouting off poetry,
A graffiti of words with their mouths.

If you have anything old,
He will love it, unless it is you,
Because he cannot wear you,
Play you, show you off to everyone,
He can only deal with fossils,
Not with relics that move.