Will you wash your hands in his heart, will you dwell?
Will you pay yourself with being proud as well?
He has a heart as little apt as yours
but it harbours no complaints, no remorse
Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan
Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan
Wouldn't flatter you for a love forlorn
for he has no equal in pride, in scorn
And what his breast forges his tongue must vent
For it's hard to walk with your knees bent

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS