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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 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