All the world's a boxing ring,
And his whole life was a million to one shot
He has his exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the Loser and a Bum,
Mewling and puking in some Plain Jane’s arms
And then the Cinderella kid, with track suit
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to the junkyard.
And then The Champ,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad of The Tale of Clubber Lange,
Made to his mistress' eyebrow,
As Another One Bites The Dust
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the ICBM silo’s mouth.
And then the Mentor
In fair round belly with bad brain damage,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd Patriarchal robes,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second fatherhood, Lukemia, Unk and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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