Have you known the hideous sickness of Macbeth
As he sleepwalks into violence and to death
With his wife, that haggard crone
And though it doesn't help to moan
It seems that moaning's what that hideous bitch does best

There are scripperscrappers scratching at your door
The police won't take your phonecalls any more
And the terrible old man controls
A hound with phosphate fangs and sends him
Galloping towards you on the moor

Have you never heard the cellar killer say
That perhaps tonight will be your lucky day
It may be a hollow boast
Or you may be already toast
For after all this is the Scottish play