Reader Submitted: If Shakespeare Did Second Life

All the grid’s a stage,
And all the avatars merely players:
They have they logins and their crashes;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the island,
Begging for help all creatures around
And then the very first teleport, with Linden skin
And plasteline hair, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to camp, and then the lover,
Dancing like Astaire, with a freebe plant
Worn to his mistress’ glory. Then a trader
Full of strange oaths and all dressed in gold,
Jealous in profit, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the empty mall. And then the shop owner.
In a high prim suit with custom-made skin,
With eyes severe and shape of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the low prim avatar, like noob
With no overrider and no group tag on side
His youthfull HUD, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shape, and his big manly voice
Turning again towards newbe simple chat
And mistakes in his type. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second ALT and mere oblivion
Sans land, sans friends, sans groups, sans everything

Jacek Shuftan