1 Minute with The Bald-Headed Poet
An Epicurean's dream: Feast your eyes on this! A poetry show that never existed, bringing you motivation and inspiration in minutes; this isn’t your average poetry experience! Meaty phrases, gritty sayings, impactful poems, insightful rhymes, meaningful paeans and provocative pieces that sound like rap lyrics. Lines that are worth gold: “Poetry is good for the soul,” plus stay tuned to hear a scripture verse. Coming to you every Friday to share a quick speech, don’t skip a beat, please spend one minute with me. Lend me your ear gate, and I promise to make you feel great, or else you can leave the scene. Grace and peace. xoxo
1 Minute with The Bald-Headed Poet
All The World's A Stage - William Shakespeare
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All The World's A Stage by William Shakespeare
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
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 slippered pantaloon,
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 childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
-Poetry Beast
Please accept my endless gratitude,
I'm tickled pink,
You're a gift!
Thank you for your time and attention.
It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.
ADDITIONAL INFO: @thebaldheadedpoet | Linktree
All the World's A Stage by William Shakespeare. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his axe being seven ages, at first the infant, muling and puking in the nurse's arms, then the whining schoolboy with his statue and shining morning face, creeping like snail, unwillingly to school, and then the lover, sighing like furnace with a woeful ballad, made to his mistress's eyebrow. Then a soldier, full of strange oaths and bearded like the part, jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation, even in the cannon's mouth, and then the justice, in fair round belly with good cape in line, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut, full of wise saws and modern incense, and so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 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 towards childish trouble, pipes and whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion.