All this bakery’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one ‘baker in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the newbie,
Mewling and puking at other ‘bakers’ slings.
Then, the whining
schoolboy with inactive account
And trolling, wailing friends,
Gathering like snails on a succulent lettuce
And then the addict ,
’Baking in the oven, writing woeful ballads
In it up to his eyebrows
Then an oldtimer,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the Bubba-ish reputation
Even in the circus cannon's mouth.
And then, the moderator
In fair, round prose, with good intention lin'd,
With eyes severe, and tongue of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and season'd buffoon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful vinegar well spent, too worldly wise,
For his shrunk outlook, and his big manly ideas,
Turning again towards childish rabble,
Gripes and whistles in his teeth.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is unkempt and static account, near oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans care, sans croissants.