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"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.