An Irish poem for you all. The only thing you need to know to appreciate the cultural in-humor is that the safety razor blade had just been invented, and that the shankill road in Belfast is a protestant area......
In a mean abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man called William Bloat.
He had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who continually got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on,
He slit her bloody throat.
With an angry lash and a razor's gash,
Oh never was crime so quick,
But the drip-drip-drip on the pillow slip
Of her lifeblood made him sick,
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted cold and thick.
And yet he was glad that he’d done what he had,
When she lay there stiff and still,
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his soul with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun,
He resolved himself to kill.
So he took the sheet off 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.
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginnin’.
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 sheet was Irish linen.