[Verse 1] Dunsinane at dusk, the castle holds its breath, Macbeth pacing circles, daring in the teeth of death, "Bring me no more reports," he snaps, "let them fly, let them fall, Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, I cannot taint with fear at all." He's leaning on a riddle like a crutch made of smoke, Trusting spirits' wordplay, missing the joke. [Chorus] Birnam wood won't walk, he says, and no man born of woman wins, He's built his nerve on a loophole thin as skin, But promises from shadows wear disguises, wear their grins— Watch how prophecy can hide the blade it hides within. [Verse 2] In comes a servant, face like linen, white and thin, A loon, Macbeth calls him—just an old word for a fool, dressed in sin, "Ten thousand," stammers the boy, "English soldiers, sir, this day," Macbeth roars "Go prick thy face" and sends the trembling loon away. He's furious at the messenger for carrying the weight Of numbers he can't bend, can't wish, can't legislate. [Verse 3] Then quiet creeps in under all that noise and name-calling pride, "I have liv'd long enough," he murmurs, something dying deep inside, My way of life is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf— Sere means dried up, withered, a season past relief. No love, no honour, no troops of friends to walk beside his years, Only curses, muttered loud, and hollow cheers. [Chorus] Birnam wood won't walk, he says, and no man born of woman wins, He's built his nerve on a loophole thin as skin, But promises from shadows wear disguises, wear their grins— Watch how prophecy can hide the blade it hides within. [Verse 4] "Give me my armour," he demands, though battle's hours away, He wants to skirr the countryside—to ride fast, hunt, and slay— Then turns and asks the Doctor, voice gone quiet, almost pleading, Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, bring her peace, her ease? The Doctor answers low: therein the patient Must minister to himself—no physic, no sweet medicine, Can reach the place where guilt has planted its disease. [Bridge] Scotland's sick, the Queen is sick, the King is sick with lies, Physic means the medicine, but none of it applies To a kingdom gnawed from inside, a conscience turned to stone— Some wounds won't close by other hands; they close alone. [Outro] So he waits for the wood to walk, and the babe unborn to come, Clinging to a word-puzzle, deaf to its own drum— The yellow leaf still trembling on a branch about to break, Till Birnam wood remove—that's the only vow he'll take.
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