There is a man who states
That life is but a stage
And we are actors of fates
In this desolate age
There is a man who says
That life is a masquerade
And we hide behind masks and plays
In this artificial parade
There is a man who insists
That life is a carnival
And we revel in all that exists
In this gaudy festival
There is a man who mutters
That life is a sanatorium
And we are nothing but nutters
In this crazy pandemonium
There is a man who cries
That life is a tragedy
And we are all lies
In this ironic parody
There is a man who ordains
That life is a prison cell
And we are held in chains
In this neverending hell
There is a man who screams
That life is an illusion
And we are fleeting dreams
In this perfect delusion
There is a man who sings
That life is not our own
And we count our blessings
In this field we have not sown
So what is life of which you live?
Who is right; with whom to agree?
What to choose; which story to weave?
Which life to recount to the powers that be?
