Hey, Superstar!
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
it takes
is
a few too many Wombats Badges,
Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)
Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
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.)
And then
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s
F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT
(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)
Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?
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 ANY PAIR OF VANS.
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 only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!