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
�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...