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\"Cemetry Gates\" by MOTY |
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A dreaded sunny day |
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So I meet you at the cemetery gates |
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Keats and Yeats are on your side |
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A dreaded sunny day |
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So I meet you at the cemetery gates |
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Keats and Yeats are on your side |
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While Wilde is on mine |
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So we go inside and we gravely read the stones |
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All those people all those lives |
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Where are they now? |
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With the loves and hates |
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And passions just like mine |
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They were born |
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And then they lived and then they died |
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Seems so unfair |
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And I want to cry |
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You say: \"ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn\" |
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And you claim these words as your own |
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But I've read well, and I've heard them said |
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A hundred times, maybe less, maybe more |
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If you must write prose and poems |
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The words you use should be your own |
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Don't plagiarise or take \"on loans\" |
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There's always someone, somewhere |
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With a big nose, who knows |
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And who trips you up and laughs |
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When you fall |
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Who'll trip you up and laugh |
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When you fall |
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You say: \"ere long done do does did\" |
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Words which could only be your own |
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And then you then produce the text |
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From whence was ripped some dizzy whore, 1804 |
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A dreaded sunny day |
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So let's go where we're happy |
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And I meet you at the cemetery gates |
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Oh Keats and Yeats are on your side |
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A dreaded sunny day |
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So let's go where we're wanted |
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And I meet you at the cemetery gates |
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Keats and Yeats are on your side |
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But you lose because Wilde is on mine |