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.
