Hipsters
No way, not me, this isn’t my thing,
This pub just isn’t my game,
This pub where vintage is modern as hell,
Where everyone’s beard is the same,
And the price of a lager is out of the world,
An ale costs a fortune or more,
It’s ridiculous hanging a bike from the roof,
Well, those were my thoughts before,
I tasted a stout, a bottled homebrew,
The ride grabbed onto my soul,
And I knew in a moment, behind all the flare,
I’d found my new watering hole,
So now, every day, out the back, on the couch,
Beside the fire pit by the tree,
About quarter past five, with a stout in his hand,
The bearded guy that you see will be me.
Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2020
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