William Bloat*

In a mean abode on the Shankill road,
Lived a man named Willliam Bloat,
And he had a wife, the bane of his life,
Who always got his goat.
And one day at dawn, with her night dress on,
He slit her bloody throat.

Then he was glad he had done what he had,
As she lay there stiff and still,
'Till suddenly awe of an angry law,
Filled his soul with an awful chill.
And to finish the fun, so well begun,
He decided himself to kill.

Then 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.
With his dying breath and he facing death,
He solemnly cursed the Pope.

But the strangest turn of this whole concern,
Was only just beginnin',
He went to hell, but his wife got well,
And she's still alive and sinnin',
For the razor blade was German-made,
But the rope was Belfast linen.