.




    Indie boys and girls who lack the basic wit to just admit

                  they can't articulate their isolation.

   Still they rise above the hordes who haven't time for minor chords

                 they pray to Zane Lowe for a revelation.




   Scenesters and suburbanites who stroll the city wrapped up tight

                  against its cold and spiteful sense of purpose.

   Whimsy and ironic laughs, and corduroy, and chiffon scarfs

                  are no defence against the urban circus.




   World-weary adolescents hopeful for antidepressants

                 it would beat pretending to read Nietzsche.

   Nihilistic rage is cool, it's better than straight A's in school

                 but girlfriends and admirers still don't feature.




   Hipsters in the hip cafes, they slip the hip-words of today

                  check their berets, and order one more latte.

   Opposite the mirror they sit and stroke their beards and take a sip

                  and wish they'd been invited to a par-tay.




   Awkward kids from Methody, they pine and long for entropy

                  and in the NME they find escape routes.

   Razorlight won't keep you safe from bigger kids who pick on waifs

                 The Dilinger Escape Plan can't escape brutes.




   Fashionistas, hair just-so, fake tans applied and off they go

                  to mingle amalayse with perfect strangers.

   In the club they're ankle deep in broken glass, the drinks are steep

                  they let the beat inure them to the dangers.




   Ostentatious art-rock lovers buy their clothes from album covers

                  saturnine and diffident and nervous.

   Jeered at by the demimonde who'd misinterpret Blonde on Blonde

                  keep walking and pretend to be impervious.




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