Collections
(Phillips)

"All the World's a stage,"
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,"
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,"
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.