A Now of Hipsters

Careful, picky herbivores – at least while others look –
they mimic artful poses from a famous obscure book.
They cannot stand the kitchen’s heat but snicker while you cook.

Their cigarettes are slim and French, their silhouettes are thin.
Their fads are trad; their shirts are plaid. They sip absinthe, not gin,
and should you find the place they flock they’d never let you in.

An object of their mirth, you’re here on earth to let them gripe,
for Hipsters can outsnob the Snub, their snips eclipse the Snipe.
Never, ever intimate their name derives from hype.

Ed Shacklee

If you have any comments on this poem, Ed Shacklee  would be pleased to hear from you.