Not when the woods walked towards my house,
Not born out of washing hands,

Only out of the witches delirium,
I **** my own and call me king,

I trust the wolf and blame the sheep.
I am a Shakespearian anecdote and I follow fairies in their trail,
My loved ones turn on me,
Plot my downfall
And look down on me when I’m frail.

Aye, Macbeth’s daughter,
Aye yet coward and shy,

I trusted with my eyes closed
And let the Birnam **** me dry