Hey everyone, I thought about writing a song directed to the newest generation of hipster, but the artsy hipster.



The girl that thinks above the clouds,
Shes lost her way through all these crowds.
She never had a chance in hell, She thinks of bed time fairy tales

She drinks hot tea, and reads Shelly,
The romance novels of 1883

She sits alone and writes a diary
Lost at sea, no in between.
She screams the weekends away
with the newest indie prodigies.

Her glasses don't fit her face
But she don't care.
Her scarfs too big, her jeans too scene,
The prime example of an artsy queen.

She roams the stops, and goodwill shops
and she don't care about the price
because in her book, a stupid look
Is the best fashion device

She swoons for guys with sensitive eyes
A guitar strapped around their back
While they sing, of her dreams
She cries and tries to get them to realize.

Shes more than just a face, to choose and erase.
She's got these feelings she can't hide.
Not for one specific name, but the generation addicted to the underground fame.
And the smell, of their hair gel, a congregation of bleeding hearts all swelled.

Yes, poop.
Last edited by MattAnderson111 at May 21, 2011,