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The Dictator makes his presence in the street

Royal wolf walking among bleeting sheep

There's something not right about how the wind blows

There's a smell in the air thats funny on his nose

He hears the whispers; never heard the malicous intent

He never picked up on that superstitous scent

With a push and shove his senses are thrown

Usually he'd heed the threats of the crone

That conspriring bastard smiles, his eyes an arch

"That washed-up soothsayer bewares the Ides of March"

Beware the Ides of March

He who wrote the calender, Makes his presence in the street

Royal Wolf, sceptical of the sheep

Treachery lingers around him -circling the senate

The deviant ruse of safety they pretended

A glance in Brutus' eyes seals his fate

A repsonsive leer tells Caeser now is late

A stab in the back isnt the act that offended

It's brought to light that his death was impended

That conspiring bastard smiles, with his eyes an arch

That washed-up soothsayer, bewares the Ides of March

Beware the Ides of March