“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 it’s 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.