The world’s a stage and Barack Obama dances through history with a light heart and a smile upon his lips, unaware of anything but his own beauty.

An entrechat, a pirouette
A canvas flat, a stagey set
The skin clad tights, the leaps and bounds
The flaring lights, the shushing sounds
The darkened wings, the stage so smooth
The quiet strings, designed to sooth
Up on his toes, his arms raised high
The lips rouged rose, the dainty sigh
The world’s a stage, the play’s the thing
The dance the rage, the plaudits ring
The flowing gown, the dancing done
The curtain down, the setting sun