In a mean abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat;
And he had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who always got his goat.
'Til one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her pretty throat.
With a razor gash he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick
But the steady 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 right glad he had done as he had
As his wife lay there so still
But a sudden awe of the mighty law
Filled his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun
He resolved himself to kill.
He took the sheet from his 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.
In the face of death with his latest breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.
Now the strangest turn in this whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell, but his wife got well
And is still alive and sinning.
For the razor blade was German made
But the sheet was Belfast linen.
-- Raymond Calvert
A gruesome poem with a sharp twist at the end. It's thought to date
back to the build up to the First World War- its conclusion shows the
pride of the author in Belfast's industrial strength (then at its
formidable peak), and disparages that of the coming enemy.
