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 park's full of scumfucks, oogles and train kids,
Busking and flying signs for sparks and beast ice,
But not food for their dogs, not laundromats 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,
but I do not,
no I do not.

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, a drunk speed-metal drummer,
Now how the hell did I end up in real tree camo in car hearts.

It's safe to say I've lost my grip,
Oh look, there goes another hipster kid,
In neon on a track bike, paying a school to learn art.
A bi-green vegetarian, a fashion icon Charlottean,
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,
but I do not,
no I do not.

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,
but I do not,
no I do not.


Lyrics submitted by silenttristo

Fine Foods Market song meanings
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