Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Somethingæ ¯ going on here and itæ ¯ going on without me
Iæ ¦ standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes
Iæ ¦ sick and tired of paying homage to the altar
Of the things that went before me when I wasnæ ° born to be there
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Thereæ ¯ a painting of my lover in the corner
Sheæ ¯ taken off her clothing and sheæ ¯ standing in the rain
Seems like sheæ ¯ beckoning for me to come and join her
But sheæ ¯ trapped inside a painting and Iæ ¦ 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
Weæ ®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
Weæ ®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...
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Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Somethingæ ¯ going on here and itæ ¯ going on without me
Iæ ¦ standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes
Iæ ¦ sick and tired of paying homage to the altar
Of the things that went before me when I wasnæ ° born to be there
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Thereæ ¯ a painting of my lover in the corner
Sheæ ¯ taken off her clothing and sheæ ¯ standing in the rain
Seems like sheæ ¯ beckoning for me to come and join her
But sheæ ¯ trapped inside a painting and Iæ ¦ 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
Weæ ®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
Weæ ®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...
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Somethingæ ¯ going on here and itæ ¯ going on without me
Iæ ¦ standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes
Iæ ¦ sick and tired of paying homage to the altar
Of the things that went before me when I wasnæ ° born to be there
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Weæ ®e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Thereæ ¯ a painting of my lover in the corner
Sheæ ¯ taken off her clothing and sheæ ¯ standing in the rain
Seems like sheæ ¯ beckoning for me to come and join her
But sheæ ¯ trapped inside a painting and Iæ ¦ 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
Weæ ®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
Weæ ®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...