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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