Great Poetry

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

THE BALLAD OF WILLIAM BLOAT  (Raymond Calvert)

In a rude abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat;
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.

With a razor's gash he settled her hash
Oh, never was crime so quick
But the steady drip on the pillowslip
Of her life's blood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.

Still, he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still;
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Filled his soul with an awful chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun,
He decided himself to kill.

He took the sheet from the wife’s cold feet
And he twisted it into a rope.
Then he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
‘Twas an easy end (let’s hope).
In the face of death with his dying breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.

But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she’s still alive and sinning.
For the razor blade was British made
But the rope was Irish linen.

*****

Boru