’Twas the night before Hipstmas, when all through the flat,
Not a being was stirring, not even a gnat;
The leggings were hung by the chimney with care,
(Hand-knitted alpaca from wool traded fair);
The hipsters were nestled all snug in their futons;
On frames of limed oak — got a great deal from groupon;
Hipster chick in her keffiyeh, bloke in his beanie,
Both toasted from roasting hand-stuffed pulled pork weenies,
And making preserves from those damned sugar plums,
That hip friends would soon smear on sourdough buns;