A parody of “All the world’s a stage” soliloquy
from Shakepeare’s As You Like It

All the world is but a stage,

All the world is but a stage,
Where women, same as men, are merely players,
Who, once they enter, they must exit, too.
And every woman in her earthly drama
Plays many parts in seven acts proceeding.
At first, the new-born, jewel of the house,
So witless yet of all the fuss she makes,
And all the sleep she robs her mother of.
Then the delightful girl with ribboned locks
And ever giggling cheeks, her parent’s joy,
So fond of picking yarrow by the road
And pinching pencils from her brother’s satchel.
And then the lover, full of studied looks,
With which she seeks to swindle and beguile
Hot-headed lads who fall into her snare.
And then she’s nailed or by surprise seduced;
No longer may she frolic with her mates,
For, soon a mother, now a grounded angel,
Unwinged and char-coaled by her daily chores.
And then the matron, prudent and wised-up,
With primrose wrinkles showing on her brow,
And envy blooming at the very sight
Of younger women in their thrilling spring.
The sixth part she performs has many lines,
Though often must she speak unlistened to.
Her muscles gently lose their mind of action;
On every morning weather forecast comes
And in her bones and spinal cord resounds.
The last of all the acts, she plays most sadly;
Her wits, once sane, derailed; her vision dimmed;
Her hearing dulled. Again she is an infant,
But now bereft of care; abandoned with
No teeth, no taste, no brains, no anything.

This poem has been published in the collection entitled print(new_line);.