Macbeth

Lord ghost 
Upon this creek wood 
Shall walk towards 
In shroud 
  White 
With knife red 
Blood upon 
This blade 
Screaming for redemption 
As witness non 
  Death on the floor 
 By suicide or non known 
        For mother 
  Shalt grieve 
In her own grave 
Where her son is 
 In a pit 
Dead 
--
In these woods 
 Son may Ye return 
    T'is ninety days 
  Since your passing 
     Murder 
  Murder
      Murder 
--
Why Lord?
   This shroud white 
       Stained in red