Coffee House Scholar

I hate those Coffee House Scholars, thinking they own the world.
I hate the way they turn their perfect noses up at me walking past.
They hate me too, they don't even understand why.
I am not like them, though I could be a scholar too.

I hate those Preppy Girls, thinking they own every man.
I hate the way they turn their perfect ass to me as I shuffle by.
They hate me too, they don't even understand why.
I am not like them, in truth I will never be their idea of perfection.

I am tired of scene kiddies, thinking they really know when they don't.
I am tired of being judged by what I wear and what I won't.
Do they even understand why they are tired of me? Maybe because I
am true to who I am and they are just pretending to be.

So what if I don't wear those clothes and I don't weigh 103?
So what if I haven't read this book or that?
So what if I haven't slept with every man on the block just to say I can?
What is the point of clothing and knowledge and sex?
Why would I WANT to be like those people?

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I hate those degenerates passing by the window of the coffee-house.
They will never be like me, on my shiny stool. I am a scholar, a philosopher.
I hate those dumpy girls passing me in the hall of the school.
They will never be like me, in my short skirt. I am beautiful, perfection.

In truth, they are happier than I, because even I can see that I am not me.