Working Men on a High Beam

All the world's a stage, according to the bard.
A stage you're going through, or in your neighbor's yard.
A proscenium extending from the sightline to the sky,
with hundreds in the chorus, plus the extras passing by.
Each and every one a hero, with sanguine words to say,
performing them with gusto in someone else's play.
Belting from the rafters, articulating prose;
wailing grief and sadness, playing tragic cameos.
Laughing loud and dancing, making smiles of frowns,
dining and romancing, bringing in the clowns.
Fostering illusions, sharing points of fact.
Moons made out of paper adding magic to the act.
Keep the greasepaint roaring on the stages where you dwell,
and when the curtain closes, 'tis hoped that all ends well.