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 said "to hell with 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 Dublin made But the sheet was Belfast linen.
