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
And 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'm well-read, have heard them said
A hundred times, maybe less, maybe more

If you must write prose, poems
The words you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loans"

There's alweays 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
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose
Because Wilde is on mine

Morrissey & Johnny Marr
The Smiths, "The Queen Is Dead" 1986