‘Twas the night before Hipmas, when all through the haus.
Not a scenester was stirring, not even to grouse.
Plaid stockings were draped off the vintage arm chair
Left to appease St. Atticus should he dreaded appear.
My artist roommate was all snug in her bed
With but half her dyed hair shaved off of her head.
And I in my raybans and pressed skinny jeans,
Listened to Bon Iver and the new Velveteens
When from the shared garden, there came such a racket.
Dashing out, I grabbed my Member’s only jacket.
I trampled organic herbs locally sourced
Thrashing our prized orchids, I stumbled and cursed
Tattoo shops and dive bar signs brightened the night
Our gentrification had cured urban blight!
And what did my pot-addled brain did perceive
But a crusty old punk with arms inked in full sleeve
Armed with a bat and a heart of animus
He could only be the mad St Atticus.
From the hells of counter culture past, he came
Whistling and yelling and calling us vile names
“Oi, Dipshit. Oi, hipster. I am coming for you.”
“You pussies. You posers. Your time is through.”
Your reprinted vinyls! Your trendy t-shirts
You’re such corporate phonies. So fake it hurts!"
Singing Sex Pistols, he kicked in the door
And dumped our record collection onto the floor
Out onto the yard, our possessions they flew
As he smashed up our flat and our walls he kicked through
And then in a cursing, I heard on the roof
A stomping and clomping of his angry boots
We hid beneath our bed and made nary a sound
We might escape alive if we went unfound
He crashed through the window and crouched like a panther
For our crimes against punk, he demanded an answer.
From dressers, he dumped all our clothes on the floor
He emptied our bookcases of post modernist lore
He unzipped his fly and pulled out his prick
His piss smelt of gasoline as emptied his dick
He smiled and his pierced mouth drew up like a bow
And above ripped collar his tattoos did show
From his pocket, he produced a zippo lighter
He struck the wheel and the wick’s flame grew brighter
Beneath the bed frame, my roommate and I yelped
In our hidden terror, it just could not be helped.
With a wink of his eye and a pull of his ears
he proceeded to realize all of our fears.
He spoke a not a word as he ignited the pyre
His satanic piss set our light reading afire
Post modernist writings went up into smoke
The fumes of beat poetry making us choke.
He blew a snot rocket out onto the floor
And gave us the finger as he went outdoors
To the next house, he continued his quest
And he broke all the furniture our neighbors liked best
And I heard him shout, as he ripped prints off the walls
“Merry Christmas, you assholes, now, suck my balls.”