ʻəʻəʻəʻəʷ ʻəʻəʷ ʻəʷ ʻəʷ ʾəʷ ʠɑʷ ʸəʷ ʰɑʷ ʰəʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʸəʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʴəʷ ʰɑʷ ʸəʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɑʷ ʰɐɨ ʰɝ ʸəʷ ʰɑʷ ʸəʷ ʰɪ ʸ
Three
Two
Yet here is a spot
Outden spot
One
Two
Why then does time to do it?
Hell is murky.
By my Lord Phi, a soldier and a fade.
What need we fear who knows it when none can call our power to account?
Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?
The fain of fife had a wife.
Where is she now?
What will these hands never be cut off?
What will these hands never be clean?
No more that my Lord, no more that you are all with this starting.
Here's the smell of the blood still.
All the perfume's free will not sweeten this little hand.
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown.
Look not so pale, I tell you yet again banko's bed he cannot come out on his grave.
To bed.
To bed.
There is knocking at the gate.
Come, come, come, come.
Give me your hand.
What's done cannot be undone.
To bed.
To bed.
To bed.
