[Verse 1] Forres stands in torchlight, the new king takes his seat, But Banquo lingers shadowed, counting up deceit. "Thou play'dst most foully for't," he murmurs to the air, The witches' crooked promise now a crown he didn't wear. Weird sisters told it truly, every word came true, So what's to stop their other prophecy breaking through? His children, not Macbeth's, were promised royal line — Banquo smells the poison underneath the wine. [Chorus] To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus, A hollow throne keeps whispering, keeps gnawing, keeps its fuss. Upon his head they placed a fruitless crown, A barren sceptre weighing his hand down. No child to follow, no future he can keep — The king who cannot rest, who cannot sleep. [Verse 2] "Fail not our feast tonight," says Macbeth, smooth as silk, Then slides the real question in, soft as spilled milk: "Sirrah, which road you riding? Is Fleance riding too? How far, how long, what hour will you ride home to?" Banquo answers plainly, suspecting nothing wrong, While Macbeth counts the minutes till the dark grows long. A gracious host, a smiling mask, a calendar of dread — He's planning out the hour his old friend will be dead. [Verse 3] Alone now, Macbeth festers: "His courage digs at mine, His wisdom plants a warning underneath the vine. I feared no man but Banquo — there's a royalty in him, Something dauntless, something regal, steady and grim." He thinks of sons not his own wearing Scotland's gold, His issue cut off coldly, his bloodline left out cold. For this he soiled his conscience, for this he spilled a king, Just to hand the garden over to another's spring. [Bridge] Enter two men, hollow, hungry, called and summoned near, Macbeth leans in close and pours his poison in their ear: "Banquo ruined you, see what he's clept you — less than men, Prove you've got the stomach, prove it now, prove it again." He baits their broken pride the way his lady baited his, Testing dulled-out courage till it sharpens into this — To suborn two desperate strangers, pay them with a lie, And send them out at twilight to make Banquo die. [Chorus] To be thus is nothing, but to be safely thus, A hollow throne keeps whispering, keeps gnawing, keeps its fuss. Upon his head they placed a fruitless crown, A barren sceptre weighing his hand down. No child to follow, no future he can keep — The king who cannot rest, who cannot sleep. [Outro] Gripe it tighter, Macbeth — watch it turn to sand, A fruitless crown, a barren sceptre, trembling in your hand.
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