Forsooth, perhaps, or strewth.
A glimmer of truth.
Were the words of a witch?
Trigger for a power crazed bitch.
All that nocturnal wandering.
Suggested she was pondering.
Her and the thane’s wrongdoing.
A miasma of guilt brewing.
Rambling about the damned spot.
Menopausal, sweaty and hot.
The misguided onus on ambition.
Resulting in insomnia and contrition.
And there be the truth.
Lady Macbeth just long in the tooth.