[Verse 1]
Scotland, ten-forty, a map stitched from feuds, every
thane's a kingdom, every castle's got moods. Shakespeare's
writing this in sixteen-oh-six, for a king who
loved witches and old Scottish tricks. James traced
his blood clean back to Banquo's line, so
the playwright plants that seed, lets the flattery
shine.
[Chorus]
Fair is foul and the fog won't
lift, a crown that's prophesied is a dangerous
gift. Glamis to Cawdor to the throne of
the land, watch how a whisper turns into
a hand.
[Verse 2]
Macbeth's a general, bloody and bold,
crosses a heath where the wind runs cold.
Three Weird Sisters — and "weird" back then meant
sisters of Fate, not just strange women. They
hail him thane, then a thane not yet
his, then king hereafter — that's the prophecy's kiss.
Banquo stands by, gets a stranger decree: not
him but his children will wear the gold,
you see. Fleance is the boy, small shadow,
soft feet, walking next to a promise he
can't yet complete.
[Chorus]
Fair is foul and the
fog won't lift, a crown that's prophesied is
a dangerous gift. Glamis to Cawdor to the
throne of the land, watch how a whisper
turns into a hand.
[Verse 3]
Lady Macbeth reads the
letter by the flame, says the prophecy's nothing
without a claim. Old King Duncan, gentle, trusting,
kind, rides in for supper with murder behind.
She sharpens her husband like a knife on
stone, guilt hasn't entered yet — it's hunger alone.
By morning Duncan's silent, the sheets run red,
Malcolm and Donalbain, the sons, have fled — not
from guilt but from knowing the castle's not
safe, one heir for England, one for Ireland's
wave.
[Bridge]
Macduff of Fife knocks, finds the king
cold and still, becomes the one enemy Macbeth
cannot kill. His wife and children wait quiet
in Fife, not knowing the dagger that threatens
their life. Hecate glides in, mistress of the
witches' plot, equivocate — speak truth that hides a
knot, a promise that's honest yet still goes
wrong, two meanings stitched tight in a riddle-song.
Ross and Lennox trade news at the door,
their loyalty thinning with each report of war.
[Verse 4]
Siward marches, ten thousand strong, from the south,
Malcolm's uncle, a sword in his mouth. Sleep
won't come easy where blood's been spilled, ambition's
a fire that can't be refilled. What makes
a man, what makes a crown true — that's
the question this tragedy throws back at you.
[Chorus]
Fair is foul and the fog won't lift,
a crown that's prophesied is a dangerous gift.
Glamis to Cawdor to the throne of the
land, watch how a whisper turns into a
hand.
[Outro]
Fate sisters whisper, the guilt never dries,
equivocation dresses truth up in lies. Remember the
thanes, remember the stain — Macbeth took the crown
and lost it again.