The Night We Saw the White Stripes at the Bowery

I meet you at the record store
on my way back from work;
You're trading band-names with the clerk,
some indie girl whom you adore
who's trying to decide if you're a jerk.
"See anything you like?" I ask.
You scan the NEW USED racks.
"Nope, let's go. See ya dork!"
She looks up from her CD stacks
as we walk out: "Sure, whatever bitch."
We walk back to your place to watch
some Star Trek and relax;
Three hours later (first we catch
Next Gen, then DS9) we go
to grab a bite to eat before the show.
We shovel hot fries down the hatch,
chase 'em with a Coke;
"She likes me," you say as you chew,
"And I sort of like her too--
But her taste in music is a joke."