Traveling on a decked out fixie
On a hipster trail, head full of licey
I met a strange lady, with a Brooklyn accent
She spit on me and called me a hipster bastard
And she said

“Do you come from a land fly-over?
Your skin glows; you’re shaped like Grover.
Don’t chain your bike to a parking meter.
You better run, here comes the hipster beater”

Buying weed from a Josh who hustles
He was six foot four and had no muscles
I said, “Do you speak my language?”
He said “like yah” and gave me a hand-crafted sandwich
And he said

“Do you come from a land fly-over?
Your skin glows; you’re shaped like Grover.
I like your bike, mines a two seater
We better run, here comes the hipster beater”

Lying in a loft in Bushwick
With a bearded jaw and arms like match sticks
I called my mom, “Are you trying to spoil me?”
Because she pays my rent even though I’m forty
And she said

“Do you come from a land fly-over?
Your skin glows; you’re shaped like Grover.
Don’t chain your bike to a parking meter.
You better run, here comes the hipster beater”