Hipsters, dinosaurs, and pencils. (with 75% less dinosaur)

A short poem entitled "Are you calling me a hipster?"

...but...but... It is ME!
How can this be?
I've never thought myself a hipster,
but now, I worry,
that my op-shopped clothes,
not of poverty bode,
but of deliberate anti-fashion,
calculated disinterest in the "mode".

My liking for pencils
and long rambling (poe)ms,
my pensive diaries
and retro headphones.
My Tolstoy, my Kafka,
my copy of "out of africa"
my penguin classics library
and (not really) ironic love of Bridget Jones.

It's clear that this category
was designed with me in mind
(I even have a compost,
and write rebuttals in, average, rhyme)

But hear me, you people,
before you condemn me.
We're the way of the future
and although I'm condescending,

and judgmental, quite often,
on your choices of clothes
your appalling taste in music
("subjectivity" is not a word I know)

The world needs us! At least I think so...
White kids from the 'burbs
we re-invented social conscience,
choose to distinguish ourselves from the herd.

We like banjos! They are fun!
Tweed pants! Suit everyone!
Old movies, new photos,
black coffee, vegan samosas,

milky tea! democrats!
greenhouses! (not gases),
Music made in sheds!
Ironic hats!

So!
I do ride a bike
I choose eggs from happy hens
But if given the choice, dear jury,
I'd do it all again.