A Blast from the past. Plus bad spelling.

[arewethereyet]

The Ballad of William Bloat, by Raymond Calvert

In a rude abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat;
And 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 pillow slip
Of her life's blood made him sick.
While the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.

Still, he was glad he'd done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still.
Til 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 his wife's cold feet
And 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 
Was only just beginnin',
For he went to hell, but his wife got well
And she's still alive and sinnin'.
For the razor blade was British-made,
But the rope was Belfast linen.

*****

Boru

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