| I once knew a poet
|
| Who lived before his time
|
| He and his dog Spooner
|
| Would listen while he’d rhyme
|
| Words to make ya happy
|
| Words to make you cry
|
| Then one day the poet suddenly did die
|
| But he left behind a closet
|
| Filled with verse and rhyme
|
| And through some strange transaction
|
| One was printed in the Times
|
| And everybody’s searchin'
|
| For the king of undergound
|
| Well they found him down in Florida
|
| With a tombstone for a crown
|
| Everybody knows a line
|
| From his book that cost four ninety-nine
|
| I wonder if he knows he’s doin'
|
| Quite this fine
|
| 'Cause his books are all best sellers
|
| And his poems were turned to song
|
| Had his brother on a talk show
|
| Though they never got along
|
| And now he’s called immortal
|
| Yes he’s even taught in school
|
| They say he used his talents
|
| A most proficient tool
|
| But he left all of his royalties
|
| To Spooner his ol' hound
|
| Growin' old on steak and bacon
|
| In a doghouse ten feet 'round
|
| And everybody wonders
|
| Did he really lose his mind
|
| No he was just a poet who lived before his time
|
| He was just a poet who lived before his time |