All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
My mother made a squeaking sound that might of been either "yes" or "help".
Poseidon took it as a yes and came in.
Paul was looking back and forth between us, trying to read our expressions.
Finally he stepped forward.
"Hi, I'm Paul Blofis."
Poseidon raised an eyebrow and then shook his hand.
"Blowfish, did you say?"
"Ah, no. Blofis, actually."
"Oh, I see," Poseidon said. "A shame. I quite like blowfish. I am Poseidon."
"Poseidon? That's an interesting name."
"Yes, I like it. I've gone by other names, but I do prefer Poseidon."
"Like the god of the sea."
"Very much like that, yes"
"Well!" My mother interrupted. "Um, were so glad you could drop by. Paul, this is Percy's father."
"Ah." Paul nodded, though he didn't look real pleased. "I see."
Poseidon smiled at me. "There you are, my boy. And Tyson, hello, son!"
"Daddy!" Tyson [shouted]...
Paul's jaw dropped. He stared at my mother. "Tyson is..."
"Not mine," she promised. "It's a long story.