Cemetry Gates

A dreaded sunny daySo I meet you at the cemetry gatesKeats and Yeats are on your sideA dreaded sunny daySo I meet you at the cemetry gatesKeats and Yeats are on your sideWhile Wilde is on mineSo we go inside andWe gravely read the stonesAll those people, all those livesWhere are they now ?With loves, and hatesAnd passions just like mineThey were bornAnd then they livedAnd then they diedIt seems so unfairI want to cryYou say : "'Ere thrice the sun doneSalutation to the dawn"And you claim these words as your ownBut I've read well, and I've heard them saidA hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)If you must write prose/poemsThe words you use should be your ownDon't plagiarise or take "on loan"'Cause there's always someone, somewhereWith a big nose, who knowsAnd who trips you up and laughsWhen you fallWho'll trip you up and laughWhen you fallYou say : "'Ere long done do does did"Words which could only be your ownAnd then produce the textFrom whence was ripped(Some dizzy whore, 1804)A dreaded sunny daySo let's go where we're happyAnd I meet you at the cemetry gatesOh, Keats and Yeats are on your sideA dreaded sunny daySo let's go where we're wantedAnd I meet you at the cemetry gatesKeats and Yeats are on your sideBut you lose'Cause Wilde is on mine(Sure!)