The Thane of Cawdor's shrewish wife
gifts him a knife still warm from bloody deeds,
its point under a wyrd to seek
the very heart of treachery and serve
it up as tripes for supper.
She is the mother he would love to fuck,
rather than high strung, high cheekboned,
high maintenance girls whose green slender stems
spring like wildflowers between cracks
in the flagstone floor of Elsinore.
