They're coming out of the walls, they're coming up through the streets,
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they're quicksilver wracked by some invisible beat.
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Right outside of your door the very stones come alive.
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They are the spring in the step, the distant look in the eyes.
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Put your Baudelaire away and come outside and play.
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Me and all my friends are poets of the deed,
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we're exactly what this country needs.
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We scratch until we're drunk, we drink until we bleed.
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We are what we believe.
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Pentameter in attack, iambic pulse in the veins,
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free verse powered of the street light mains,
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an Iliad played out without a shadow of doubt
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between the end of the club and the sun coming out.
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Leave Kerouac at his desk, we have romance in our risks.
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And here's what we believe: before we get bored, let's be inspired,
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let's ignore the applause and set the theatre on fire,
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fight every war like the drunks in the choir,
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put our art where our mouths are: Poetry of the deed.
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So enough with words and technical theses,
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let's grab life by the throat and live it to pieces.
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We can choose, we can change,
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and if we don't, we're just afraid of living life
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like we're loved and in love and alive
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to all the things we could be if we just believed
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that life is too short to be lived without poetry.
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If you've got soul darling now come on and show it me.
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But life is too long to just sing the one song,
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so we'll burn like a beacon and then we'll be gone.
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Poetry Of The Deed
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Frank Turner |