Sympathy for the Lemming – The Rolling Scones

Lyrics start at 00:22

<Bongo intro and nasal shrieks> Like, yah...Like, yah.........YAH
Please allow me to be my useless self
I'm a kidult of wealth but no taste
I've been in Brooklyn for a long 3 years
Stole many Brooklynite's homes and faith
I grew a beard just like Jesus Christ
And slimmed down to the shape of a rake
Made damn sure that I never
Wash my hair or work very late

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed I'm Zane
But what's puzzling you
Is the gender of my frame

I stuck around St. Williamsburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Pushed out the natives; I'm so sinister
Astoria, you'll get the same
I rode a bike
Made all the rents spike
Made the natives rage
The L train platform's my stage

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed I'm Zane, like, yah
Ah, what's puzzling you
Is the gender of my frame, like, yah

Looooook at meeeeeee!
In the Boro's of Kings and Queens
I might stay for a decade
Then go back to my home state
I nasally shrieked,
"Who hit me with a parking meter?"
When after all
It was the hipster beater

Let me please be my useless self
I'm a kidult from a fly-over state
I use Google Maps to find a grocery store
Brooklyn is very scary after 8.

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed I'm Zane, like yah
But what's puzzling you
Is the gender of my frame, like yah, get down Zany

<solo>

Pleased to meet you
Hope you met my friend Brent, like yah
But what's confusing you
Is how we pay our rent?

Just as every corporation is criminal
But Apple, Converse and Ray-Ban get no complaint
I farm urban quails, just call me Gentrifier
Cause I'm in need of art supplies and paint
So if you beat me
Have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
If I hear your Brooklyn accent
I'll blind you with my skin; it's bright as paste!

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guessed I'm Zane, like yah
But what's puzzling you
Is the gender of my frame, um mean it, get down

Woo, who
Like, yah, get on down
Like, yah
Like, yah!
Tell me Caleb, what's my name?
Rooftop honey, can ya guess I'm Zane?
Tell me Mason, what's my name?
I tell you one time, I'm so fucking lame.
Ooo, who
Ooo, who
Ooo, who
Ooo, who, who
Ooo, who, who
Ooo, who, who
Ooo, who, who
 

The Steamed Milker Band – Take the money from Mom



The Steamed Milker Band - Take the money from Mom

 This here's a story 'bout Billyburg Josh and Molly Sue
 Two middle aged hipsters - moved to Brooklyn to be cool
 They sit around the loft, eat kale, and watch Youtube
 And here's what happened when their parents cut them loose

 They headed down to, ooh, old El Bushwick
 That's where they ran into other fake Beatniks
 Billyburg Josh, has the physique of a broomstick
 Molly Sue got some money from mom

 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom


 Billyburg Zack suffers from nasalitis
 You know he's an artist - but needs a lot of practice
 He ain't gonna let nobody know he's useless
 He makes his livin' off selling moustache waxes.

 Molly Sue - like, yah - she's molding clay.
 Billyburg Josh is straight - but passes for gay.
 They got Mom's money, hey
 You know they got their way
 They still running from the hipster beater 'til this day
 Singin', go on take the money from mom.

 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom
 Go on take the money from mom

White Sabbath – Iowa Man

[lyrics begin at 00:42)

<intro>I am Iowa man!

 Has he a rooftop hive?
 Can he see with shades all the time?
 Can he play kickball?
 Why is he an attention-whore?

 Does he eat gluten-free bread?
 Has he lice within his head?
 Will he comb his hair?
 With no job, why should he care?

 He - rides - his Big Wheel
 Around McCarren Park kickball field
 Infinite - leisure time
 To make childish art and nasally whine.

 Natives don't want him, We put a scare in his world
 Waiting for rent checks, That he'll use to buy hurl

 Now 12 noon is here
 Iowa Man will have a beer
 Vengeance from the "nabe"
 From the people he displaced

 Natives don't want him, They just want him dead
 Nobody helps him, Except Mom in the Midwest

<solo>

 Heavy pipes of lead
 Crashing down upon his head
 The Hipster Beater stole his Schwinn
 Iowa Man ruined Brooklynnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!

Ob-La-Di Kom-bu-cha – The Beardles

 

OB-LA-DI KOM-BU-CHA – by THE BEARDLES

 
Dexter has a job in farmers market place
Megan sews tweed clothing with her hands
Dexter asks to Megan “how’s my bearded face?”
 And Megan says “you should be in an indie band”
 
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 
 Dexter takes the L train to a Bushwick store
 Buys twenty organic onion rings. (Onion rings)
 Megan’s back home doing yoga on the floor
 And Dexter’s rooftop honeybees begin to sting (Sting)
 
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 
 In a couple of years they have bought
 A home sweet home
 With the help of their enabling folks
 Daddy and Mommy Jones  (Ah ha ha ha ha ha)
 
 Now they’re selling craft ale in the market place
 Dexter mashes hops and barley with his hand
 Megan enters them into a shopping cart race
 And Dexter just got duped for coke with a bag of sand
 
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 
 In a couple of years they have built
 A floating home
 Its on the toxic Gowanus canal
 Their children have Down’s Syndrome
 
 Yah, happy ever after in the market place  
Megan now sells sculptures made from yams
 Dexter stays at home with ice packs on his face
 He got robbed and beaten on Lorimer and Grand
 
 Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on  
Ob-la-di kom-bu-cha life goes on LIKE, YAH!
 La-la Brooklyn life goes on
 
 And if you want some fun
 Beat a hipster when he says “Like, Yah!”

Jumpin’ Josh Flash – The Rolling Scones.

Jumpin’ Josh Flash – The Rolling Scones

I was born in a cornfield, out-of-state.
I play the banjo, at 1pm on the L train.
But it’s all right now, I’ve got Mom’s cash!
But it’s all right. Im Jumpin Josh Flash,
Mom’s got cash cash cash!
 
I was raised, in a gated cul-de-sac.
I was schooled, making art and there were no blacks.
But it’s all right now, I’ve got Moms cash!
But it’s all right, Im Jumpin Josh Flash,
Mom’s got cash cash cash!
 
I was drowned, in Coney Island; left for dead.
I moved to Brooklyn; all the real working families fled.
I’ll pay nine dollars, for a loaf of organic bread.
Like, yah yah yah.
The hipster beater, put a spike right through my head.
 
But it’s all right now, I’ve got Mom’s cash.
But it’s all right, Im Jumpin Josh Flash,
Mom’s got cash cash cash!
 
Jumping Josh Flash – Mom’s got cash.
Jumping Josh Flash – Mom’s got cash.
Jumping Josh Flash – Mom’s got cash.
Jumping Josh Flash – Mom’s got cash.
Jumping Josh Flash – Mom’s got cash.

Beardsie Boys – Paul Revere (The Hipish are coming)

Now here’s a little story – I’ve got to tell
About three bearded hipsters – you know they smell
It started way back in 2003
With Chad rock, MP3 and me – Josh-y.
I had a penny farthing named Paul Revere
Just me and my farthing and a craft ale beer
Peddling across the land – scared of colored man
Teenage posse’s beat me up
I wear women’s pants
One-skinny-trans-plant-I-be
Living in a loft with 4 nobodies
The sun is beating down on my wool ski hat
The tofu’s gonna rot – the craft ales getting flat
I’m lookin’ like a girl – I ran into a guy
His name is MP3 I said, “Howdy” – he said, “Yah”

He told a little story – he reached into his murse
Four thousand for a studio – rent’s due on the first
He just had joined a band
His arms look like Q-tips
His voice was high, legs like french fries – he smelled like fuckin shit.
He said, “Where are you from?”
I said, “cornfield nation”
An upper class bum
Who just arrived at Penn Station
Quick with his scarf
Wrapped around his neck
He scratched the lice on his head and this is what he said:

“Now my name is MP3 – roof top pickles I dill.
My arms resemble scallions;
Body’s shaped like a quill
Now what do we have here – a transplant with craft beer
I’m half a man, I have no job, my schedule is clear.”
We stepped into the wind – we blew away like twigs
You’d think we’d act our age but we’re 40 year old kids.

“Now I got trustfund – you know this is true.
I think that I’m an artist – but really have no clue
It’s not a tough decision as you can see
I can blow you for coke or you can ride my fixie”

I said, I’ll ride with you up to the hipster beater’s border
If I cross the red line he said I would get slaughtered.
He beat me like this – He beat me like that
He did it with a major league bat
Soooo Brooklyn is fun – my hair’s in a bun
And right about now my coke is down to crumbs
The King Chad Rock – that is my name
And I know a fly spot to start a kickball game.”
We played for six hours until the kickball popped
Real Brooklynites were working while we were not
This dayuuuude was staring from the end of the bar;
He was drinking PBR from a mason jar
MP3 said, “Like yah, you know this guy?”
I said, “I do, he’s Josh from Bed-Stuy”
The Josh said, “Get ready, to try my local honey”
My name’s Josh-y and my parents give me money.”
He rolled up a ciggy – then began to cry
His parents cut him off back in mid-July
Rents went up and hipsters hit the floor
They played duck duck goose, like they were four.
“I’m Josh-y – the suburban reject,
sculpting oxygen is my next art project”
MP3′s a hipster – he’s out of place
The average Brooklynite wants to punch him in the face.
The Casio player’s out – the music stopped
Went to the rooftop farm to gather this year’s crop.
Josh-y grabbed the honey – MP3′s Chucks grew mold.
I grabbed two Megans, jumped on my Schwinn and rolled.

If You’re Anorexic – FishingRod Stewart

Lyrics begin at – 00:35 ENJOY!

She sits alone; waits for Mom’s donations.
He’s from the midwest, the ultimate Caucasian.
His arms are frail; her art’s just not astounding
Don’t you just know that they’re only gentrifying?

If you’re from Ohio, and you think you’re sexy
Come on let me break your jaw.
If you really eat meat, don’t say you’re a vegan.
Why do hipsters like to sew? Why do they sew?

He’s acting high, looking for attention.
Come on Holly, let’s protest the election.
Now hold on a minute, you remind me of my brother
Can’t pay my rent, so let me phone my mother
They catch a rickshaw to his Williamsburg apartment
At last he can show her, where his dad’s 401k went.

If you have the body – of an anorexic
And you are from Ohiooooooo
Then I really need to, just reach out and punch you
Come on Caleb go back homeeeeee, just go back home.

He’s on Bedford beating his drum
’cause Brooklyn is all about fun
Relax Caleb, this ain’t really home.

Solo

They wake at noon ’cause both iPhones are ringing.
They should be working, but that ain’t what they’re thinking
Outside the loft, it’s misty and it’s raining
Perfect weather, for Gowanus Canal sailing
He says, “How ’bout some soy milk and some fair trade coffee?”
Never use sugar – only rooftop honey.

If you have the body – of an anorexic
And you are from Ohioooooo
Then I really need to, just reach out and punch you
Come on Caleb go back homeeeeee.

Chorus

Chorus

Chorus

Skinny Quinn’s Island

 
Just sit right back; eat some roof top kale
Kale grown by the hayseed Quinn
He dresses weird for attention
And rides a rusty Schwinn.

His mate was shaped like a rubber band
Works part-time in a record store.
Two hipster fucks set sail that day
On a Gowanus Canal tour, a Gowanus Canal tour.

The “cool nabe” started getting rough,
Josh and Quinn were tossed,
If not for the courage of the policeman crew
Their iPads would be lost, their iPads would be lost.

The Schwinn was chained to a store in uncharted Coney Isle
With Skinny Quinn
His trusty kazoo,
The millionaire; A.D.D child and wife,
The performance artist
The Mixologist and Cankle Ann,
Here on Skinny Quinn’s Isle.

So this is the tale of our stowaways
They’re here for a short, short time,
They’ll have to make the best of things,
While living on Daddy’s dime.

Midwest Moms and Midwest Daddys too,
Will do their very best,
To make their artists comfortable,
On their New Brooklyn quests.

No arms, no necks, just skin and bones
Not one male quality,
Winter hats in the summer time,
Beards full of lice and fleas

So join Quinn in New Brooklyn, friends
Be sure you’re a privileged child
It’s seven grand for a studio
Here on Skinny Quinn’s Isle

Welcome to New Brooklyn – by Bums and Poseurs.

Welcome to the New Brooklyn
It’s all fun and games
Our parents give us what we want
Honey – you know our names
There’s Caleb, Josh, Stephonica
Hayden, Quinn and Reid.
If you got Midwestern money,
Then we got breast milk cheese.

[Chorus]
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
Watch me raise my rooftop
B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b bees, bees.
I’ll always be a – hayseed.

Welcome to the New Brooklyn
We play with food and clay
If you want to grow a beard
New Brooklyn is the place
And you’re a very nasally herb
Get blown away by a breeze
You can have public pillow fights
But I’ll break your fuckin knees.
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
I miss my, my, my mom’s Ovaltine
Ooh, I want to hear a nasal shriek
YAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Solo

Welcome to New Brooklyn
It gets better every day
Your pets are cage-free farm animals
Your straight but you act gay
If you have a liberal arts degree
You can work in a smug gallery.
You can play kickball all you want
Wear ski hats when it’s 100 degrees

[Chorus]
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
Watch me raise my rooftop
B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b bees, bees.
I’ll always be a – hayseed.

And when you’re high you never ever want to call Mom, call mom, call mommmm. Like yahhhhh!!

Solo

You know where you are?
You’re down in New Brooklyn, Caleb.
You’re gonna tie dieeeee.
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
Watch me raise me rooftop B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b bees, bees
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn.
Drink my, my, my Sunny-D
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
My beard is full of f-f-f-f-f-f-f-f-fleas, fleas
In New Brooklyn, welcome to New Brooklyn
Its where you dress like a clown, YAH!!

The Land Fly Over – by Men Who Don’t Work

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”