Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Were just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Somethings going on here and its going on without me
Im standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes
Im sick and tired of paying homage to the altar
Of the things that went before me when I wasnt born to be there
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Were just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Theres a painting of my lover in the corner
Shes taken off her clothing and shes standing in the rain
Seems like shes beckoning for me to come and join her
But shes trapped inside a painting and Im 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
Cause the poet of tomorrow will be just as drunk as I am
Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
Were 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
Were 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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