All the World's a stage,"

A friend of mine, he sometimes said,

And though he tried to show the way,

They only care about his name.



"Love is for the Fool,"

A blind old man, he always said.

But of its' joys, he sometimes spoke

And then it seemed, he could see.



"Life is for the Strong,"

A travelling monk, he told me once

But of the weak, he never spoke

though their cries beat on his ears.



I stood my gun in hand

The Swallow flew to meet his love

And as they touched, I shot him down

But now it's me that can't fly