I'm pissed off with Robert Frost
And the guy who wrote Paradise Lost.
I ain't happy with Aristotle,
And especially John, the weird Apostle.
Don't mention, please, Shelley or Keats,
Blake, Byron or Wordsworth;
Each and every one you see,
(If you're ready for the truth),
Took their themes from me.
Don't look aghast,
Don't tsk and titter,
Their thievery's left me
Mean and bitter.
Just because they said it first,
Doesn't mean I find it just;
It doesn't give them ownership
Of my themes and authorship.
I write of Roads, Good and Evil,
God and Satan, love and leaving.
I know, I sound like I'm bleating,
But I won't stand for this beating.
Although they're merely dust and bones,
They don't have the right to own
All the great lines I have sown,
Like The best laid plans of mice and men.
(I said that before Robbie Burns).
Let me make this crystal clear;
If I was there, or he were here,
I'd sue the ass of Will Shakespeare.