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"All the World's a stage," |
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A friend of mine, he sometimes said, |
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And though he tried to show the way, |
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They only care about his name. |
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"Love is for the Fool," |
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A blind old man, he always said, |
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But of it's joys he sometimes spoke |
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And then it seemed, he could see. |
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"Life is for the Strong," |
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A travelling monk, he told me once |
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But of the weak, he never spoke |
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Though their cries beat on his ears. |
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I stood my gun in hand |
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The swallow flew to meet his love |
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And as they touched, I shot him down |
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But now it's me that can't fly. |
