The Script

The world is a script, 

And all men merely actors; 

They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays his part. 

At first, the infant, 

puking in the nurse's arms. 

Then, 

the whining schoolboy, 

With his dress code, and his knackered morning face, Creeping unwillingly to school. 

the once schoolboy, now school man 

and one not so different from the other. 

life still the same, goal still same. 

So many years yet so little change, 

College, or nothing. 

and so he plays his part. 

And then the lover, 

burning like a furnace, with the marvels of love, yet consumed by the flames of passion, 

and the dangers of despair, 

and none of them aware. 

school now a fever dream, and your life is ahead yet your dreams so far, and the same routine awaits enter at nine, exit at five. 

enter at nine, exit at five. 

enter at nine, exit at five. 

enter at nine, exit at five. 

deprived. 

and so he plays his part. 

And then the beauty of your infant, 

puking in the nurse’s arms. 

A new life begins, 

and the cycle never harms, 

and so he plays his part. 

And then the wiser, 

in a fair round belly, 

with eyes severe and greys appear, 

full of wise saws and history to adhere, 

and so he plays his part. 

An infant once more,

death knocking on the door, 

With glass on nose and stick at side, puking in the worrying son’s arms, the skin bellows a thousand stories, a childish treble as each step goes by, yet every step is no step at all, and so he played his part. 

Last scene, 

an end to common history, 

now a story that the son narrates, unaware of what awaits, 

and so you played your part.