Every poet wants to murder ShakespeareWere just pissing on the grave of what went on beforeAnd everyone invents the world the day that they were bornSomethings going on here and its going on without meIm standing on the precipice and counting all my recipesIm sick and tired of paying homage to the altarOf the things that went before me when I wasnt born to be thereEvery poet wants to murder ShakespeareWere just pissing on the grave of what went on beforeAnd everyone invents the world the day that they were bornTheres a painting of my lover in the cornerShes taken off her clothing and shes standing in the rainSeems like shes beckoning for me to come and join herBut shes trapped inside a painting and Im running out of patienceI sip a pint of beer and marvel at the magicI must be as drunk as Mister Marlowe in his primeI stumble through the shambles of my own imaginationCause the poet of tomorrow will be just as drunk as I amEvery poet wants to murder ShakespeareWere just pissing on the grave of what went on beforeAnd everyone invents the world the day that they were bornEvery poet wants to murder ShakespeareWere just pissing on the grave of what went on beforeAnd everyone invents the world the day that they were bornEvery poet wants to murder Shakespeare...