Fag Ends

Even amongst the hums and whirrs and hisses coming from behind the counter Its so easy In the pretentious mist of this artsy café To pick up And draw on The stained remains of conversation; Some so Avant Garde Andy Warhol would vomit. Drenched in pomposity Peppered with multi-syllabic phrase, And thoughtful hums between beard strokes. These are the philosophers and future prime ministers to be. Full of words and the dedication of a dying fish, with a stench and jounce to match. The girl in the stripy top wants to be heard Flicking her mane rhythmically as she giggles Obnoxiously at her friends bad jokes. Donned with that oh so vintage-esque scarf (its warm inside) And a rock-n-roll T-shirt. Both pierced with todays hottest jewelery; They are different Like every other alternative wanna be wandering the street. Nobody told them its in what you do that counts. I would love to pick up *** ends here But I am shy and enjoy being an orange chameleon Set against the pine tables and chairs Worn by an unquenchable caffeine and image addiction. The artists, musicians and hippies should gather here, Just to off set the skinny jeans And influential teens engulfed by an overrated image. At least the coffee is good, And the waitress is cute with a genial smile. The art and décor, inspired. I'll probably keep coming back.