Fine Foods Market

The lottery line at fine foods is three blocks long And Hussein's selling PBR to hipsters with ironic mustaches Who most definitely once were punk, but now wear flannel And scream over bar chords on acoustic guitars The parks full of scum fucks, ooggles, and train kids Busking and flying signs for Sparks and beast ice But not food for their dog, not laundry mats to clean their clothes They don't even shower but that's how it goes And I don't care much either way 'Cause when they're my age they'll all own Saabs Vacation homes with pending divorce, memberships at the golf course And I do not, (hell nah) no I do not (check yourself) You see I grew up in a traffic jam, a cul-de-sac all American With tapered jeans and leather jackets and Nike high tops A hair farmer from the suburbs (ooh-hoo) A drunk speed metal drummer (ooh-hoo) Now how the hell did I end up a Realtree camo and Carhartts It's safe to say that I lost grip (oh look) There goes another hipster kid In neon on a track bike paying a school to learn art A buy green vegetarian, a fashion icon charlatan, at the bar buying rounds With his mother's credit card And I don't care much either way 'Cause when they're my age they'll all own Saabs Vacation homes with pending divorce, memberships at the golf course And I do not (hell no), no I do not (c'mon) And I don't care much either way (I don't either) 'Cause when they're my age they'll all own Saabs Vacation homes with pending divorce, memberships at the golf course And I do not, no I do not