East London Song (after Bertolt Brecht & Kurt Weill)

All photos © Tim Marshall 2014.

To the tune of Alabama Song*:

Well, show me the way
to the next hipster bar.
Oh, don’t ask why.
Oh, don’t ask why.

Show me the way
to the next whiskered bard.
Oh, he won’t shave;
oh don’t ask why.

For if we don’t find
the next hipster bar,
in bitcoins we can’t pay;
in Shoreditch we will die.
I tell you, I text you,
I tell you we must die.

Sing me Kurt Vile
in the next hipster bar.
Oh, don’t ask why.
Oh, you know why.

Oh, moon of dear old Hoxton,
We now must say goodbye:
We’ve lost our sense of purpose
And need hipsters to show us why.

Oh, moon of Dalston Junction,
It’s good morning, not goodbye.
We’ve missed our good old night bus,
We need espresso, oh, you know why.

Show me the link
to the best hipster URL,
it will lead the way.
It will lead the way.

Oh, retro moon of London,
How analogue you are!
We lost all our signal,
down in the cellar bar.

Oh, moon of old Stoke Newington,
We ne’er must say goodbye.
You shine on our old-style Instagrams;
We need filters, don’t ask why.

The moon shines over Clapton
and we now must say goodbye.
Some of us live in Walthamstow`
(though others would rather die).

Well, show me the way
to the next lo-fi bar.
The wood’s all ply,
the wood’s all ply.

For if we don’t find
a plaid-shirted earl
I tell you we must lie,
and tell them it’s this guy.
They’ll trust you. I’ll text you.
I tell you we must lie.

Show me the place
where the real hipsters are.
They don’t ask why,
they don’t care why.

Oh, moon of Lea Bridge Roundabout
Like bunting in the sky:
We’ve lost our good old Rastas,
And must have hipsters, oh, who knows why.

* Bertolt Brecht reworked by Katy Evans Bush for The London Column. The photos are from Timothy Hadrian Marshall’s series King’s Cross Stories.