An enlightening poem about culture.
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
Is a few too many Wombats Badges
Converse, Ripped Jeans
Stupid f**king Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. You pretend to love festivals but really, you're just Keeping Up Appearances, we all know that - like you're some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn't touch you. There. I said it.)
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend's
F**KING CHECKERED SHIRT
(And those pathetic 'Twlight' bracelets.)
You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANYTHING FROM GRINDSTORE.
Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?
'Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.
And come back, in a FASHION -
Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the new Blink album.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!
Shine on, Superstar. All the best of luck to you; the best of look to you all.
(Haaaa. You've got stupid eyeliner and a slagline. Oh, don't even get me started on his "tattoos", babe!)