Cemetry Gates (Live in Boston)

A dreaded sunny day So 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 and hates With passions just like mine They were born And then they lived And then they died Seems so unfair I want to cry You say, "Ere thrice the sun hath 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 or poems The words 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 who trips you up and laughs When you fall Who'll trip you up and laugh When you fall You say, "Ere long done do does did" Words which could only be your own You 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 Weird lover Wilde is on mine You have good taste, thank you