William Bloat

[kevomaco2]

In a mean abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man named 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 gash he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick
But the drip drip drip on the pillowslip
Of her lifeblood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted and cold and thick.

Now he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still
But 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 the wife's cold feet
And twisted it into a rope
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
'Twas an easy end, let's hope.
And with his dying breath and in facing death
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 sheet was Belfast linen.
-Raymond Calvert

-Kevin