Hereditary sloth instructs me

The Seven Ages of Mine (with apologies to William Shakespeare)

All the world’s a mine,

And all the men and women merely miners;
They have their tailings and their discoveries,
And one man in his time buys many stocks,
His losses being seven ages. At first the third-party contract worker,
Mewling and puking in the pit boss’s arms.
Then, the whining investor with his portfolio
And naive trusting face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to losses. And then the speculator,
Sighing like smelter, with a woeful  ballad
Made to his bullboard’s earhole. Then, a trader,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a hipster,
Jealous in dishonour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the winning fliptrade
Even in the bear market’s mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round wallet, with inside intel lined,
With eyes severe, and hotel minibar half-cut,
Full of wise tips, and modern rip-offs,,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the round and pyjama’d newsletter writer,
With spectacles on nose and paunch on front,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too small
For his expanded shank, and his big manly trades,
Turning again toward childish hedges, shorts
And caveats in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second bankruptcy and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans money, sans everything.

Morgan Freeman does his own version here

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