Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
We?Š?e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born
Something?Š? going on here and it?Š? going on without me
I?Š? standing on the precipice and counting all my recipes
I?Š? sick and tired of paying homage to the altar
Of the things that went before me when I wasn?Š° born to be there

Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
We?Š?e just pissing on the grave of what went on before
And everyone invents the world the day that they were born

There?Š? a painting of my lover in the corner
She?Š? taken off her clothing and she?Š? standing in the rain
Seems like she?Š? beckoning for me to come and join her
But she?Š? trapped inside a painting and I?Š? 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
???ause the poet of tomorrow will be just as drunk as I am

Every poet wants to murder Shakespeare
We?Š?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?Š?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...