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| Cemetry Gates
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A dreaded sunny day
I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry 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, with hates
With passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
It seems so unfair
Oh, 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 word you use should be your own
Don’t plagiarise or take on loan
There’s always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And 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, 1804)
A dreaded sunny day
So let’s go where we’re happy
And I meet you at the cemetry 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 cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
But you lose
’cause weird lover wilde is on mine
Sure ! |
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