The Ballad Of William Bloat by Raymond Calvert
In a rude abode on the Shankhill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat.
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
'Til one day at dawn, with her nightdress on,
He slit her bloody throat.
With a razor's gash, he settled her hash -
Never was crime so quick.
But the steady drip on the pillow slip
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'd done what he had,
As she lay there stiff and still.
'Til suddenly 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 he twisted it into a rope.
And 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 of this whole concern
Is only just beginnin'.
For he went to Hell, but his wife got well,
And she's STILL alive an sinnin'.
For that razor blade was British-made,
But the rope was Irish linen.
*****
Boru
In a rude abode on the Shankhill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat.
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
'Til one day at dawn, with her nightdress on,
He slit her bloody throat.
With a razor's gash, he settled her hash -
Never was crime so quick.
But the steady drip on the pillow slip
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'd done what he had,
As she lay there stiff and still.
'Til suddenly 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 he twisted it into a rope.
And 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 of this whole concern
Is only just beginnin'.
For he went to Hell, but his wife got well,
And she's STILL alive an sinnin'.
For that razor blade was British-made,
But the rope was Irish linen.
*****
Boru
‘But it does me no injury for my neighbour to say there are twenty gods or no gods. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg.’ - Thomas Jefferson