Her crimson heart lay dying in her chest,
A song of sorrow resonates inside.
There, melancholy creates its new nest.
There in her it forever will reside.
Her husband’s plans soon made her femme fatale.
If only she could wash her sins away.
She hopes that it won’t be found out at all,
But now can she stay with him, come what may?
Now she must wash his red hands that are stain’d.
Insanity drives her, all in her head,
And in her mem’ry bloody pictures stay’d.
Psychotic’ly, Macbeth weeps weak in bed.
Now her deeds will eternally hurt her.
Eternally mark’d, mystery won’t stir.