It's an eighty-year old Viagra-popping ex-rocker
with a hip problem,
dentures in a glass,
and walker on Sundays,
trying to pick up chicks at a bar.
It's a blue-collar punk
with a grudge against the world,
thinking he's Sid Vicious
when he meets his friends
at the pub after work
to bitch about how Wal-Mart
won't let their workers start a union.
It's a cream-puff porcelain doll
trying on Jimmy Choo's
before she goes to protest
the local organic vegan market closing down
because some jackass got sick off the day-old tofu.
It's a drugged up shithead
who's singing Nirvana like it's a holy sermon;
face turning blue as he wonders how low he's finally fallen
after shooting up that sweet electric current
that makes grundge seem all the more real.
It's a cool cat
talking 'bout that Beat Generation;
couch hopping his way to the Social Assistance office
and then the hole-in-the-wall
that still plays his beat, man.
It's rainbowhead gyrating to the heartbeat of the club;
eyes flashing with the strobe lights
when he bumps into another tuque-wearing,
arm-and-leg-band clad, neon-painted kid;
pupils as big as saucers
like he's seen the entire world in one hit.
It's this mashup they like to call hipster;
even when the hipsters don't think they're hipsters
because being hipster isn't hipster;
so you can't say you're hipster if you wanna be hipster
and it ain't hip to be a hipster.
We ain't got no revolution.
We're just light and noise pollution.
Too busy digging ourselves outta debt,
with the creditors on our back, weighing us down
till our noses are deep in the ground
and we're licking our own shit.