Demons Rising

The crown , my deeds

Like a burden does it seem

I stand all alone

In a dark and empty dream

Such is the bitter taste

Of the blarney outta hell

There was a life to waste

And the witches did it well

Here as I sit

On a cold and empty throne

The thanes, most men

All have fled I am alone

Such is the bitter taste

Of my hopes about to fall

There was a life to waste

I see demons rising tall

No use to run and hide

No use to run and hide

Now as my dreams lie there in pieces

Where is the glory after all

Now as I stand amidst the ruins

I see demons rising tall

Demons rising tall

Still I am invincible

No fear in my heart there'll be

No man man of woman born

Shall have power over me

Yet there is a bitter taste

Of the madness that did fall.

I had a life to waste

I see demons rising tall

They have tied me to a stake.

I cannot fly, but bear-like

I must fight the course.

What's he that was not born of woman?

Such a one am I to fear, or none.

What is thy name?

Thou'lt be afraid to hear it.

No, though thou call'st thyself a hotter name than any is in hell.

My name's Macbeth.

The devil himself could not pronounce a title more hateful to mine ear.

No, nor more fearful.

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant.

With my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st.

Thou wast born of woman, but swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, brandished by man that's of a woman bom.

Why should 1 play the Roman fool, and die on mine own sword?

Whiles I see lives, the gashes do better upon them.

Turn, hell-hound, turn.

Macduff, of all men else I have avoided thee.

But get thee back.

My soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.

I have no words;

My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out.

Thou losest labour.

As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed.

Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;

I bear a charmed life,

Which must not yield to one of woman born.

Despair thy charm,

And let the angel whom thou

Still hast served tell thee Macduff

Was from his mother's womb untimely ripped.

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,

For it hath cowed my better part of man;

And be these juggling fiends no more believed,

That palter with us in a double sense,

That keep the word of promise to our ear

And break it to our hope.

I'll not fight with thee.

Then yield thee, coward,

I will not yield to kiss the ground before your feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse.

Though thou opposed being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last.

Before my body I throw my warlike shield.

Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries: "Hold, enough!"

My fate may have turned to black but at least

I'll die with harness on my back.