Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare We抮e just pissing on the grave of what went on before And everyone invents the world the day that they were born Something抯 going on here and it抯 going on without me I抦 standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes I抦 sick and tired of paying homage to the altar Of the things that went before me when I wasn抰 born to be there
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare We抮e just pissing on the grave of what went on before And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
There抯 a painting of my lover in the corner She抯 taken off her clothing and she抯 standing in the rain Seems like she抯 beckoning for me to come and join her But she抯 trapped inside a painting and I抦 running out of patience
I sip a pint of beer and marvel at the magic I must be as drunk as Mister Marlowe in his prime I stumble through the shambles of my own imagination æ…ause the poet of tomorrow will be just as drunk as I am
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare We抮e just pissing on the grave of what went on before And everyone invents the world the day that they were born Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare We抮e just pissing on the grave of what went on before And everyone invents the world the day that they were born