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.