The Know

In the hippie coffee shop,
No one looks like a hippie.
Everyone’s cooler than that.

The smell may mate patchouli,
Ground arabica, and herbs,
But the customers wear black

With post-punk haircuts dyed black
Where not shaved close to the skull,
Since they all know in New York

And London the hippie days
Are over, and they all read
The zines and the Village Voice.

They can’t help the coffee shop.
It’s the coolest place they’ve got
In this town of cowboy dives,

Frat houses, and casinos—
Plus too many leftover hippies
Who mostly smoke weed at home

And raise organic kids now.
It takes a lot of effort
To be cool in such a town,

And the couples in leather
Would never dream of mingling
With the dweeb who just moved here

From actual Manhattan
Wearing ordinary clothes.
Only locals know this pose.