The Seven Ages Of Britney Spears: A Poem

By William Shakespeare and Craig Hlavaty

All the world's a stage, even things like MTV and stuff. And all the men and women merely players, even Fred Durst and that one chick from that one show that we forgot the name of. She had long hair probably.

They have their exits and entrances, like the time that Michael Jackson died. And one (wo)man in her time plays many parts, like when Britney was in Crossroads, or on How I Met Your Mother and junk. Her acts being seven ages, but how can she like, have seven ages if she's just like, 29 and stuff?

At first the infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's, or agent's, or mother's, arms. Mickey Mouse Club was hard work, y'all...

Then, the whining schoolgirl with her satchel, and low-cut top with matching salacious skirt and stockings, that made most men over the age of seven sweat and ignore phone calls and fire alarms. And shining morning face, creeping like a snail. Unwillingly to school. Or even the back-lot trailer where her tutor could be found.

And then the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad, and talking about making out with dudes and chicks. Made to her (wardrobe) mistress' eyebrow. Hey, can you make this outfit like, more sheer and stuff? I want them to see nipple and vadge.

Then a soldier, full of strange oaths, and beating a car with an umbrella. Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, shaving her head in front of the paparazzi. Seeking the bubble reputation, even in the cannon's mouth. Mmmm, you can put Burger King in your mouth too!

And then the justice, when finally taken her leave of K-Fed. In fair round belly, with a good stylist to make sure the weave fits just right. With eyes severe, partying with Paris, sans underwear. Full of wise saws, and modern instances, and so she plays her part, by making sure her legs always do when getting out of the car.

The sixth age shifts into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, when Circus came out and she did that song about threesomes. With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, her youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide, almost as wide as she was, or so sayeth the tabloid scum. For her shrunk shank, and her big manly voice, turning again towards childish treble, pipes and whistles in her sound. Mommy is on the phone with E!, Sean and Jayden, pipe down.

Last scene of all, that (doesn't quite) end this strange eventful history, is second childishness and (nowhere near) mere oblivion, sans taste, sans everything, she lets Ke$ha produce the first song on Femme Fatale, "Till The World Ends," and even Rocks Off thinks it's catchy.

Follow Rocks Off on Facebook and on Twitter at @HPRocksOff.

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