Macbeth

Weird women promise the starting of days,

Crowns to be placed anon, fair, foul, anew,

Rooted in battle, born and raised in praise,

These are the brave ways the devil speaks true.

It will have blood they say, blood will have blood,

Slaughter the chickens, all the pretty ones.

Sleep is the price for undamming this flood,

Damned to see slight mirrored eight passing sons.

Spirits attend mortal thoughts, wombs, kings, trees,

New widows howl, new orphans cry out, out.

In sound and fury bring me to my knees.

End this charmed life, ‘Hold, enough’ the last shout.

Brief candle, timely ripped from mortal coil,

Come to join the ashes of barren soil.