All The World's A Game

All the world's a game,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their PKs and their respawns,
And one man in his time plays many classes,
His act being seven stages. At first the neophyte,
Mewling and button smashing in wanton alarm,
Then the whining acolyte, with his light inventory
And shining face of wonder, crawling past monsters,
Unwilling to fight. And then the expert,
Intense like a furnace, a woe-filled blade
Made to conquer fiends. Then a raider,
Bags filled with strange trinkets and shrouded in epics,
Jealous of other's gear, sudden and quick to gank noobs,
Seeking to expand his reputation
Ever running his mouth. And then the veteran,
His house filled with grand loot and lined with treasure,
With eyes wizened by dragons and warlocks,
Full of strange tales of adventures past;
And so he plays his part. The sixth stage shifts
Into the quiet and skeptical sage,
Watching the spectacles of new ages from side to side;
His intense vigor, lost to a world too wide
For his excitement, and his boisterous voice,
Turning again to quiet wonder and solitude
He crafts on his own. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange and beautiful game,
Is the second desire for youthful remembrance,
Sans guild, sans friends, sans time, sans everything.