Words which could only be your own
While Wilde is on mine
Some dizzy whore, eighteen hundred and four
With loves, and hates and passions just like mine
So let's go where we're happy
Keats and Yeats are on your side
'Cause there's always someone, somewhere
So I meet you at the cemetery gates
And who trips you up and laughs when you fall
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
You say, "Long done, do, does, did"
All those people, all those lives
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
And you claim these words as your own
And then produce the text from whence was ripped
'Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine
If you must write prose and poems
A dreaded sunny day
With a big nose, who knows
A dreaded sunny day
A dreaded sunny day
The words you use should be your own
Oh, Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose
They were born and then they lived and then they died
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
But I've read well, and I've heard them said
It seems so unfair, I want to cry
Who'll trip you up and laugh when you fall
A hundred times maybe less, maybe more
Where are they now?
Keats and Yeats are on your side
Don't plagiaries or take on loan
You say, "Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
So let's go where we're wanted
