All the world’s a Facebook page,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their laptops and their iPhones,
And one user in their time plays many parts,
Their acts being seven ages.
At first the newbie,
Preening and sulking in the bathroom mirror;
And then the student, with his mates,
All shiny happy shit-faced, their mugs collide
Gurning to be cool.
And then the groupie,
Pics from the moshpit, of woeful quality
Hoping to impress their iPeers.
Then a traveller,
Full of strange lands, and bearded like a tard,
Jealous acquaintances so quick to laurel,
Stands before ancient rubble weary,
Sullying the Canon’s frame.
And then the gegger,
Infers the chap from telly won’t mind,
With great unwashed posed by their side,
Full of guess-who-saws and modern inferences;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the dreary and slippered parenthood,
With baby photos and baby photos and baby photos;
Their dribbling spawn, pics saved and tagged
More nauseating than sick been bagged,
Thumbed up by fellow beaming goons, fast
Unfriended without a sound.
Last scene of all,
Teen upstairs poking their privates,
Father fearing what he might find. Logs off:
Sans tweets, sans iPod, sans face, sans book.