Cemetry Gates

A dreaded sunny day

So I meet you at the cemetery gates

Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day

So I meet you at the cemetery gates

Keats and Yeats are on your side

While Wilde is on mine

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones

All those people, all those lives

Where are they now?

With loves, and hates and passions just like mine

They were born and then they lived and then they died

It seems so unfair, I want to cry

You say, "Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"

And you claim these words as your own

But I've read well, and I've heard them said

A hundred times maybe less, maybe more

If you must write prose and poems

The words you use should be your own

Don't plagiaries or take on loan

'Cause there's always someone, somewhere

With a big nose, who knows

And who trips you up and laughs when you fall

Who'll trip you up and laugh when you fall

You say, "Long done, do, does, did"

Words which could only be your own

And then produce the text from whence was ripped

Some dizzy whore, eighteen hundred and four

A dreaded sunny day

So let's go where we're happy

And I meet you at the cemetery gates

Oh, Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day

So let's go where we're wanted

And I meet you at the cemetery gates

Keats and Yeats are on your side

But you lose

'Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine

Sure