Roleplayer Guild! The Musical
Written in Approximately 20 minutes.
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
Audience Member #1
My friends, were it not that I were expected
To produce these downright awful musicals
I might, in truth, produce some whimsical
Design of rhyme to entertain. But dejected,
I am proven right where I once suspected
That measure of a man is former measure
Plus some extra. So, t'is not my pleasure,
Indeed, nor yours, for now I've run my course.
My words and actions now progress towards
A forum where my art is no longer yours.
What? But Foxes, poet, we all implore,
"Rescind these words," we beg for more.
Sinrus, were it that you still walked our shores
I would loose my tongue as I have before.
But to simply put, you've now closed that door
And left this forum's intellect unsure.
Alack, a black day, what alcohol you've drank,
Expel it from your gut and write us sHanked.
T'is no result of some drunken stupor.
T'is that the ship is sunken, and a tumor
That long has ailed my failing humor
Has, at last, quashed any chance of any future plays.