With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore’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,
(Artisanly-baked in a wood-fired stove,
With foraged birch twigs to leaven the loaves,
From a starter at least a hundred years old,
Bubbling and yeasty, a true bespoke mould);
When out on the patio arose a great clatter,
The hipsters both stirred, wondering what was the matter.
Probably just a drunk neighbour popped round for a natter,
And perhaps a chilled chardy with a camembert platter
‘It’s only 5am, you have come a bit early’
Said the bloke in his beanie, nudging his girlie
‘Hipstmas brunch doesn’t start until at least ten
Take some organic melatonin and sleep until then.’
But the clattering built to a rattle and hum
And some kind of engine’s low throbbing thrum;
So he sprang from his futon and threw up the sash,
While applying some salve to a purulent rash
(The price hipsters pay for a true Hipstmas feast
When they’ve only just found they’re allergic to yeast);
His vision was blurry, like peering through raindrops,
So he had a quick hit from his ethical eyedrops;
But the fantastical sight on the lawn was still there
A shimmering chimera lit up like a fair
The moon on the breast of the freshly scythed grass
Lent a lustre and glow through the fake leadlight glass
And what was it sitting there in the backyard?
Glimmering bright like a mirrorball’s shards?
‘Totes amazeballs,’ said beanie man to the keffiyeh
‘On our lawn is some dude in a flaming red Prius’
With a shiny tanned driver, all buffed up and slick
He knew in a moment he must be St Hip.
They could tell from the cut of his hand-distressed jorts,
And perched on his head was a trilby of sorts,
His shirt said something about A Bathing Ape,
As he smiled as sucked on his peppermint vape;
The dude leant on the pedal and revved up the engine,
Wound down the window, elbow on the ledge, and
striking a pose like some bearded brigand,
He peered over the top of his vintage Ray-Bans;
‘Yo Beanie Man, how’s it hanging, old son?
I come bearing gifts, in my Prius there’s tons
Of all the good things you need for your feast
And have you considered some gluten-free yeast?
Cos the rash is now spreading all over your face,
It’s really not cool, man, it’s not choice, bro, or ace.
Now, I can’t hang around in your fake spray-on snow
I’m St Hip, and I’ve got lots of hip places to go.
And hipster bitches to see, man, and all of them know
That I curate my own organic Scandinavian mistletoe.’
He grinned like a spiv as he popped open the boot,
His eyes, how they twinkled, his tan dark as soot;
His cheekbones were honed, his abs were well toned,
His beard looked like something Ned Kelly has loaned;
The roach of a joint was clamped tight in his teeth,
His skin was all shiny with Oil of Reef;
He spoke not a word as he bent to his work,
Heaving stuff from the boot with a clean and a jerk;
He filled up their leggings with fine hipster things,
Schnitzels and strudels all tied up with strings;
Moroccan couscous, hard cheese from Santorini,
Some big fat Greek yoghurt to smear on the weenies,
Some taramasalata and some baba ganoush,
And some smashed avocado on the buns for to smoosh,
And hand-packed in biodegradable cellophane,
Tiny plum puddings with handmade marzipan;
He gave them a smile and said ‘Merry Festivus’
As he climbed back inside the cherry-red Prius;
And he screeched out the driveway like a bat out of hell,
Leaving nothing but gifts and his patchouli oil smell;
And Beanie Man turned back to the keffiyeh,
And said: ‘This is totes the best Hipstmas eva!’
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