Hipsterclad and clueless

It's just a song, just another generic mid-paced foot-tapper, just a conservative assembly of melody and basic rhythmn. four-on-the-floor, a key change as a curve-ball for the unititiated... i'm well aware it won't change a thing. but ever the kantian, i won't be discouraged by the apparent chasm between means and ends. the kids and i who danced like we were sure can always say maybe, just maybe, we were a threat. so raise your fucking eyebrow you fucking coward. crawl home and compose your memoirs. we haven't changed the world when we pack up the backline but the sweat on the small of my backs says at least i fucking tried... the kids and i who danced like we were sure declare that this number is the end of your fucking show, and this line is the end of your song, this song is the end of your set, this set is the end of your night, this night is the end of your youth. you were so nearly there, but hipster-clad you didn't understand that you have to partake in the sacrament of sound. so grab your partners, and nod your head, arms folded, at the back of the crowd. but as you tap your feet to the beat of this song, another second has passed, another minute has gone,
And as you acquiesce in growing older you know that one day you'll hang your head, as you realize you heard it all but never listened to a word. so go forward from this day and swear to me you'll hear it all but always dance like you believe