Fuck you Haight Street punk,
I walk past and acknowledge you
but that’s not enough
you sit in your own shit and say things to get under peoples’ skin
your existence is punctuated by some nickel and dime bags
Fuck you Haight Street punk,
you think you’re original, somehow poetic
but we know the difference between beautitude and lassitude or pompous verus gnoetic
not like you would care
is that dogshit in your hair?
Fuck you Haight Street punk,
days have gone by and your clothes are rotting right there on your body
it’s a shame you can’t find your way to the potty
it’s not my fault you have to act so snotty
when I offer you food, you grimace, and say something naughty
Oh, Fuck you Haight Street punk,
if you really even knew what three chords and a beat really meant
if you really understood the notion of no rules would make me REALLY hell bent
on taking your ass to the cleaners or sending you on a mission to the sun
your mission seems to not be of a higher order, it’s a selfish LOOK-AT-ME one.
Fuck you Haight Street punk,
there are people out there who REALLY need charity
and you create a smokescreen and help the rest of us become callous
they wander in a daze while you spread your malice
as you leech off those who care there are those who can return nowhere
Fuck you Haight Street punk,
go back to your suburban homes, you’re not Jack Kerouac after all
your smokescreen of filth doesn’t qualify you at all
you’re no hippy, or mover or shaker, or someone who stands for much . . . you’re just out of touch
you hang out in front of places that bespeak your ideals, I see McDonalds is where you get all your meals
Fuck you Haight Street punk,
if only you had any idea of how much your whole demeanor stunk
when I offered you a smile, you showed your true style
from this point on, I’ll show more guile
I will ignore your presence, reject your whole phyle.