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The Lottery line at Fine Foods is three blocks long |
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and Hussein"s selling PBR to Hispsters with ironic mustaches |
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who most definitely once were punk, but now wear flannel |
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and scream over bar chords on acoustic guitars |
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the parks full of scum fucks oggles and train kid |
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busking and flying signs for sparks and beast ice |
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but not food for their dog,not laundrys to clean their clothes |
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they don't even shower but that's how it go's |
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and I don't care much either way,cause when their my age they'll all own SAABS |
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vacation homes with pending divorce, memberships at the golf course |
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but I do not ,no I do not |
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You see i was born in a traffic jam, a cul-de-sac all american |
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with taperd jeans and leather jackets and nike hightops |
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a hair farmer from the suburbs, a drunk speed metal drummer |
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now how the hell did i end up a realtree camo and carharts |
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it's safe to say that I lost grip,oh look there goesanother Hipster kid |
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in neon on a track bike paying a school to learn art |
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a buy green vegetarian,a fashion Icon charlatan,at the bar buying rounds |
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on hi mothers credit card |
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and i don't care much either way.cause when their my age they'll all own SAABS |
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vacation homes with pending divorce,memberships at the golf course |
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but i do not hell no ,no i do not |
