On Vulcan’s feast day bonfires lit the squares,
the Sunday clothes were hung out in the sun,
and living sacrifices, one by one,
were thrown into the flames with fervent pray’rs.

Flavipor flung a rat upon the pyre,
his eyes were cold and his expression grave:
‘No longer let me be my master’s slave,’
he whispered to the god across the fire.

Aquila, famous for her scarlet curls,
burned her Melitaean, seeking Vulcan’s ear:
‘I wish Avitus whom I love so dear
stopped being friendly with the other girls.’

And Helvius Sabinus sacrificed
a litter of piglets to the rolling drum,
‘Don’t let Cirrinus Vatias become
aedile again’, the candidate enticed.

The flames devoured their offerings with glee,
their god’s own mountain listened to their cares
and rumbled to acknowledge all their pray’rs
as evening slowly fell on Pompeii.

There is someone lies dead in the bushes,
left with naught save her body and soul;
someone else arms it down to the Liffey
with the loot of the night in his bowl.
One can still hear the rusty wheels screeching
as his silhouette rolls out of sight,
and the corpse of his victim grows colder
as he vanishes into the night.

He was born on the wrong side of Dublin
without legs which made him stand out;
a compassionate blacksmith provided
a wheeled bowl so he could move about.
He was liked and renowned as a beggar,
but since begging does not pay a bill,
he looked for alternative incomes,
not depending on people's goodwill.

All those silver-spooned folk in their coaches
did not know of a mendicant's strife,
and as life had been tough with young Billy,
young Billy got tough with life.
Every night he would down a few whiskeys,
then the legless vagrant would lie
in the thicket and wait for a lady
or a servant girl to pass by.

With his plaintive voice he'd be calling
out for help to get out of the ditch;
when a victim bent down to assist him,
he'd be grabbing their throat and pitch
their head in his bowl where he'd strangle
them till all signs of life had ceased,
take their money and other possessions
and return to the bottle, well pleased.

Before leaving the scene, he'd be counting
the money he robbed once or twice
and then swiftly return to the shelter
to indulge in his gambling vice.
So whenever you hear someone calling
in distress when you're out on a stroll,
run away, don't look back, and remember:
none escaped who met Billy the Bowl!

Near Stockholm an acquainted skipper
sent warnings to all privateers,
and Captain Störtebeker gathered
his dedicated crew of peers.

‘Queen Margaret has defeated Albert
of Sweden who inanely led
his troops to slaughter, and his letter
of marque is worthless now,’ he said.

‘Shall we get settled in East Frisia,
find work and give up everything,
or shall we do what we've been doing
without permission from a king?’

‘Get settled? Surely you are joking,’
they mocked Klaus Störtebeker's call.
‘We will go on as North Sea pirates -
God's friends and enemies of all!’

And as, for more than one more decade,
the jolly crew attacked and seized
the ships and cargoes of the Hanse,
their wealth and ruthlessness increased.

One morning as their ship was anchored
in Heligoland to stock more ale,
a fleet of cogs approached their vessel,
and Klaus decided to set sail.

One of the pirates had, however,
at dead of night when darkness loomed,
cast molten lead onto the rudder,
and so their enterprise was doomed.

After a short but bloody battle
the captain and, subdued in style,
six dozen of his men were captured
and brought to Hamburg to stand trial.

And there he offered the lord mayor
a tempting ransom for them all:
a golden chain that could be fitted
round the extensive city wall.

His generous offer was rejected:
‘We shall save more by killing you,’
and after six long months in prison
last meals were served for Klaus and crew.

Grasbrook beside the harbour bustled
with life: magicians could be seen,
musicians, minstrels, jugglers, actors
and children playing on the green.

The prisoners were then escorted
to the location near the dock;
Klaus was the first of all the pirates
to put his head upon the block.

‘One last request?’ the mayor asked him.
‘But don't request that you be spared!’ -
‘Free all the men whom I succeed to
run past after my neck is bared.’

All the spectators burst out laughing,
including Störtebeker's crew -
even the members of the Senate.
The mayor said, ‘That we can do!’

The axe came down, and Störtebeker
got up, ran like a headless hen
and, by the time the headsman tripped him,
had passed eleven of his men.

And soon the crowd saw, loudly cheering,
seventy-three men's heads impaled
along the Elbe, a deterrent
to demonstrate the law prevailed.

The mayor thanked and paid and lauded
the executioner whose smirk
still hadn't vanished, ‘You, my fellow,
must be exhausted from your work.’

‘Oh, not at all,’ he told the mayor,
‘I have sufficient energy
left over to behead the Senate,’
the headsman jested artlessly.

The Senate lacked the sense of humour
required to let him live, and so
their youngest senator was honoured
to strike a busy day's last blow.

And where the chopping hill at Grasbrook
spread rampant fears of vengeful dead,
you now can walk along the river
where people rarely lose their head.

But every now and then a chopping
sound can be heard from an obscure
locale, most likely from the harbour...
but then again, you can't be sure.

‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You've slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’
King James caressed the corpses, ‘Was all my love in vain?
My world is dead, I feel like a miteside in the rain.’

Her heart was light with passion, her rapture could be seen:
amongst the dappled roses walked Lady Mondegreen.
This must have been the happiest day of her carefree life
because King James had told her that he would kill his wife.

The bonny birds were singing in oak and chestnut tree,
the sun dispersed so brightly his rays on land and sea,
the jasmine spread its fragrance, and soon she would be queen:
a spring in every step had Lady Mondegreen.

The lady was a tomboy when no one looked, and as
she rode out in the country, she swapped her satin dress
for her belovèd kilt which her lover disapproved
of in strong terms – however, the girl remained unmoved.

‘I want to meet the lady,’ the king said to his aide,
but no more in the palace because I am afraid
the queen might smell a rodent. Fetch Huntly, he will ride
out to the Earl of Moray where I shall meet my bride.’

Huntly received his orders, ‘Go tell the earl I need
his house; first fetch the lady from Rathven, and make speed!
I want her kilt torn, mangled! Then bring a candle and,
once lit, a cross. His faith will serve me well, my friend!’

The loyal Huntly saddled his horse; he was not keen
on this foul task but hurried to Lady Mondegreen.
He brought her to the earl who obliged and took his coat,
and then he grabbed the lady and cut her pallid throat.

He gently lit a candle and held it in one hand
while stabbing with the other the earl, the monarch's friend.
He cut his face severely, and what he – there's no doubt –
did to the lady's body I shall not write about.

The King arrived in very high spirits at the scene
to greet the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.
‘What happened?’ he lamented as he broke down and cried.
‘I carried out your orders,’ his trusted friend replied.

‘I want her killed, torn, mangled! Then bring a candle, and
one slit across his face will serve me well, my friend!’ -
‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You've slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’

Why is my sword so bloody
and yet my conscience clear?
The country celebrates me
while I feel low and drear.

To do or not to do it;
by doing what was right
I gravely violated
values for which I fight.

All lives, I posit, matter:
I took the one that cost
the lives of countless others,
so no more will be lost.

And yet I keep on musing
how, with beliefs so strong,
could something I consider
so right feel oh so wrong?

Her kind and gentle spirit was renowned
in Waterford where she would feed the poor,
comfort the sorrowful with her profound
compassion, nurse the sick and be their cure.

Her charity was overshone, I guess,
by her unequalled beauty; many men
travelled to court her, but without success;
her heart belonged to someone from the glen.

The peasant boy returned her love. With bliss
he dreamt of her fair hair, bright eyes of green
and ruby lips; she dreamt of their first kiss
and first embrace in love's serene demesne.

At last he met her parents, and he asked
to marry her. She saw her father twitch:
‘You can have anybody;’ with unmasked
greed he concluded, ‘you will marry rich!’

He gave her to a chieftain; his reward
were lands and titles and the most immense
dowry, so from that day he could afford
to carry out his most outlandish plans.

Her vile old husband locked the bride away
in his round tower where he kept her chained
and only went to see her once a day
to bleed and feed her while she was restrained.

Each night he'd gently cut her throat to see
her crimson blood that trickled down her breast,
observe her misery and pain with glee,
put out a plate with scraps and leave to rest.

She languished in her cell until she chose
to starve and end her torture and distress;
she fed her morsels to the waiting crows
and withered with her beauty and largesse.

A shadow of herself, she followed through,
and after many weeks she closed her eyes
while with her dying breath she cursed the two
who were responsible for her demise.

The villagers who buried her forgot
to pile up stones upon her grave, and so
that very night she rose and left her plot,
determined to take vengeance on her foe.

The haggard creature first set out to face
her selfish father who had sold her out
and found a lavish mansion in the place
of the small house she'd reminisced about.

She sneaked up to his bed, disturbed his rest
and watched his horror as he saw his child;
she sank her teeth deep down into his chest
and sucked the air out of his lungs and smiled.

Her widower was busy as he bled
his new young wife; the Dearg Due quaffed
his lungs, observed by the new bride who shed
no tear for him by whom they had been scoffed.

Recalling her sanguinary ordeals,
she bit again and drained his veins as well,
so her tormentor figured how it feels
to lose one's blood yet did not live to tell.

But once she got a taste of blood, the fierce
wraith became drunk on it and needed more;
to quench her everlasting thirst, she'd pierce
the neck of any man to drink his gore.

And from her grave right under Strongbow’s Tree
(wherever that may be) she'll rise again
upon her thousandth anniversary
(whenever that may be) in search of men.

On that dark day the town of Waterford
will turn into an abattoir; she’ll crave
the blood of all its men who will be gored
unless large stones are piled upon her grave.

You want what's best for them, and yet what seems
desirable may cause dismay and rage;
remember, if you crush your children's dreams
you may regret it at a later stage.

Dusk embraced the gloomy forest
where the restless spirits roam,
and amidst the sylvan whispers
Betha hurried to get home.

One tall figure in the distance
looked familiar; Betha gazed
at her face, and realising
who she dealt with left her dazed.

It was Betha’s doppelgänger
or her sister’s, she assessed,
since her actual twin was living
an entire day’s journey west.

When at dusk one meets their double,
she remembered, it’s a fetch
who announces the impending
death of the unlucky wretch.

‘She’s like me and like my sister,’
Betha pondered as the moon
rose. ‘This signifies that either
of us will be dying soon.’

In the morning she adroitly
mounted her black steed to see
her twin sister at the west coast,
thinking, ‘Better her than me.’

Dark and heavy storm clouds gathered;
Betha kept her eyes well skinned
and was urged to turn around by
voices carried on the wind.

Night fell when she was arriving
in Glencar where her estranged
but delighted sister quickly
had a sapid meal arranged.

During supper they kept sharing
memories and laughed about
all their juvenile adventures
and the boys they used to flout.

Soon her sister served the pudding,
mealtime’s most important part;
Betha then picked up the bread knife
which impaled her sibling's heart.

Looking at her dying sister
with apparent disrespect,
Betha held her aching stomach
as the poison took effect.

The death bell rang again across the haunted
doctors’ maternity ward without ado,
and Dr Ignaz Semmelweis felt daunted
by the sheer number of the mothers who
had died of childbed fever in their care,
a circumstance that drove him to despair.

The hospital in Vienna offered mothers
free services and treatment where they trained
their junior doctors, just like many others,
while yet a second clinic was maintained
by midwives, and the offer was availed
of by a lot of women life had failed.

And yet while childhood fever had been killing
one out of forty on the midwives’ ward,
the doctors lost one out of nine; not willing
to leave it like his colleagues who ignored
their losses, Ignaz tried to find the cause
which didn’t earn him anyone’s applause.

Mothers beseeched the staff to be admitted
to the safe midwives’ clinic; who was told
to see a doctor took the news with knitted
brows, and a lot of them, out in the cold,
gave birth right on the street and then would say,
to claim supports, that they’d been on their way.

And even street births, which was most surprising,
turned out to be much safer while the curse
upon his ward still saw the death toll rising,
and therefore he instructed his averse
staff to examine mothers thoroughly,
resulting in increased mortality.

He’d ruled out temperature and overcrowding
and kept on searching for the origin
of this phenomenon that still was clouding
his work, but he was left to look on in
despair as a new wave of unsubdued
traffic between the ward and morgue ensued.

One day his friend and colleague was conducting
an autopsy and, accidentally,
one of the students whom he was instructing
pricked his ring finger; some days later he
succumbed to sepsis which is just the same
as childbed fever in anything but name.

‘Eureka!’ Ignaz smiled amidst his burning
grief, having found the answer: doctors brought
cadaverous particles upon returning
to the maternity ward, and so he thought
of a solution. From that very time
he was providing chlorinated lime.

He forced his staff and students, never budging,
to wash their instruments and hands on site.
‘Are you suggesting we are dirty?’ grudging
doctors complained. - At once, to his delight,
mortality went down, as was his goal,
and even dropped below the midwives’ toll.

Soon the professor called him, intervening:
‘It has been brought to my attention that
your staff must wash their hands, a most demeaning
practice that has to stop right now,’ whereat
Ignaz insisted, ‘But you can’t ignore:
death numbers are as low as ne’er before.’

‘We’re men of science,’ Klein elaborated.
‘The drop is a coincidence; the fact
outbreaks are random cannot be debated,
they come and go, and no one can impact
their chance occurrences.’ - 'No, you are wrong!
They’re caused by particles we bring along.’

‘I urge you to let go of your phantasma,
for childbed fever, as we know today,
is caused by the occasional miasma
that’s wafting through the windows and may stay
inside the ward where it can cause severe
humour imbalance to their blood, I fear.

‘The only ways to help these wretched creatures
are bloodletting and praying, and we should
keep foreign students from the ward and preachers
of nonsense like yourself. It’s understood
that due to your obnoxious attitude
your current contract will not be renewed.’

‘You’re murderers,’ the furious doctor thundered,
‘who make this hospital a slaughterhouse!’
And as he left and slammed the door, he wondered
how many more would have to die to rouse
the sleepy world of science and to make
it welcome hygiene for the patients’ sake.

Once back in Hungary, the firm physician
practised and volunteered and made a fuss,
for everywhere he worked he, on a mission,
enforced his handwash protocol and thus
managed to virtually eradicate
the childbed fever at a rapid rate.

He wrote about his findings which were strongly
combated, criticised and ridiculed
by the establishment who claimed he wrongly
accused them of mass homicide and ruled
that they were murderers, so they were keen
to counter, pointing out their hands were clean.

While tens of thousands of mothers kept on dying,
Ignaz was terrorised, and in dismay
he called opponents imbeciles while trying
to reach out and convince them. Needless to say
his semmelwise approach did not advance
his cause; that’s if it ever had a chance.

Once, lured into a mental institution,
he realised what happened and fought back.
Severely beaten as a retribution,
he died of sepsis after the attack,
and so, for many happy decades thence,
the doctors didn’t have to wash their hands.

With the Bishop of Galway I walked down the alley;
we came from the fields and were covered in mud
as a hovering shadow approached from the valley,
half human, half viscous and covered in blood.
My companion grew pale at the sight of this creature,
and I did the same; she uncovered her face,
or what it once was, and, ignoring the preacher,
she entreated me, ‘Won't you come home to my place?’

The bishop was gasping for breath and narrated
the story of Scarlet O'Malley who dwelt
in this area decades ago and created
a picture of love as a profligate felt:
she was being considered the ultimate sinner,
and everyone claimed that she was a disgrace
to her village; she haunted the pubs after dinner
and looked for a man to take home to her place.

One evening they found her remains in the Shannon
and brought what was left of her corpse to her house.
Her funeral had been arranged by a canon
who took pity on her; then her furious spouse
was ploughing her grave in a rampaging spell, he
demolished her tombstone and left not a trace,
but Scarlet O'Malley still haunts yonder valley
and looks for a man to bring home to her place.

Jacqueline, a midwife in London,
shrunk back and grew pale as a ghost:
of all the things she was scared of
a breech birth she feared the most.

She carefully pulled, and she twisted
until she delivered his head;
she saw his blue face as she severed
the cord, and she knew he was dead.

And Tess, his unfortunate mother,
was smiling, ‘I have to admit
this child would have been quite a burden:
thank God you got rid of it!’

Back home Jackie hung her head, sighing,
‘I've made a mistake I despise
myself for, but how could a mother
delight in her baby's demise?’

She tried to forget it, but people
would shun her or spit in her face,
the pub down the road wouldn't serve her,
she was out of work within days.

One night Tess' friend Polly approached her,
‘I am in a terrible mess!
I hope you'll be able to help me;
you were recommended by Tess.’

She guessed what the woman expected.
If not me, she thought, someone else
will do it. I won't save the baby,
so I'll do as my conscience compels.

‘No problem, my dear,’ Jackie answered,
‘I've got all my tools,’ and she smiled,
‘I'll do it right here in that gateway,’
slit her belly and ripped out the child.

A week later she ran into Annie
who'd liquidised most of her wage,
‘Oh, can you imagine the shame of
getting pregnant again at my age?

‘Tess said you could fix it,’ she babbled
and was dragged to a yard. In the space
of seconds she lost her intestines
which were scattered all over the place.

Long Liz delivered a message
to Jackie one evening, ‘It's Kate.
Tess told her about you; she wants you
to help her before it's too late.

‘She'll meet you early on Sunday,
at the workers' club around one,’
so Jackie got out her equipment
to get yet another job done.

The yard was pitch-black; in the darkness
she tried to find Kate anyhow.
A voice said, ‘I'm here,’ and she answered,
‘Let's get this over with now!’

She grabbed her shawl, and she wrestled
the woman down to the ground
and cut her throat in an instant,
because she could hear a faint sound.

A carriage rolled into the driveway,
showing Jackie that she'd been remiss:
in the flickering light of its lantern
she noticed the woman was Liz.

On Mitre Square half an hour later
she froze as she ran into Kate.
‘I'm sorry, police have detained me;
did Liz not ask you to wait?’

‘The square,’ Jackie answered, ‘is quiet,
I think we can do it right here.’
She took out her guts and her baby
and cut off her nose and her ear.

One day Mary Jane went to Jackie,
‘Tess told me how helpful you've been...’ -
‘I'll meet you tonight at the stable,’
she replied with a bitter grin.

‘I've got my own lodgings. Please see me
tonight between three and four.’
When Jackie arrived with her toolkit,
Mary Jane came to answer the door.

‘I’m glad I've my room,’ she told Jackie
as she carelessly kicked off her shoes
and undressed from the neck to the ankles,
‘with that terrible man on the loose.’

She spread her legs on the mattress,
unaware of her pending doom,
and Jackie, with well-placed incisions,
removed her child and her womb.

Since then no one else came to Jackie,
yet no one informed the police;
henceforth the Whitechapel harlots
have lived in relative peace.

The church was empty, dark and cold as he knelt down to pray
after his dad, his wife and their five children passed away,
killed on Croagh Patrick by a fierce enormous avalanche,
dealing the sudden deathblow to the Lawless family branch.

And as he looked up from his prayer, seeking the Saviour's grace,
he saw the crucifix and found a smirk on Jesus' face.
So Murphy shook his fist and said, ‘You're not a god who cures -
you've taken seven of my people, now I'll take seven of yours!’

He then sought out the seven men and women in the church
who were more pious than the rest and followed this research
with studies of their weaknesses; they all could be enticed
to have their poor immortal souls taken away from Christ.

First he approached Miss Molly Dwight, a mousy teenage girl,
and told her, ‘You are beautiful! If you would only curl
your hair and wear some fancy clothes, I'm sure you'd turn the head
of every single man in town – and every single lad.’

That day Miss Molly got a perm and bleached her hazel hair,
she bought a short pink dress, and now she basks in every stare
that's thrown her way. She holds her head up high, and she looks down
on all the other teenage girls whose colour still is brown.

He went to Mrs Miggins who, as she did every year,
was baking cakes for charity and said, ‘Why are you here?
Your cakes and biscuits are superb - why waste your gift? I am
surprised you feed the church instead of simply selling them.’

Today old Mrs Miggins owns a busy bakery
in town, and it's been said that she gives nothing away for free.
She piles up money while her staff get less than minimum wage,
and any talk of charity will put her in a rage.

Then there is Mr Brown, a man who's friendly and polite,
a model husband with a crush on little Molly Dwight.
He had confessed to Murphy once, ‘I'd love to take her out,
but at our age we've got no chance,’ and Murph replied, ‘No doubt.’

But one day Murphy asked the girl to play a prank on friends,
and so they passed Brown's house at night, laughing and holding hands.
And through the window he saw Brown grow pale and clench his fist
and bang his head against the wall as he and Molly kissed.

McSharry was a misanthrope and hated dogs as well,
especially the ones that crapped at his front door. He'd yell
at anyone who came too close, he's cross and has been known
to throw a beer can at a man or the occasional stone.

So Murphy took his favourite cow out for a walk nearby,
and at McSharry's door he let it drop its little pie.
The landlord came out with a gun; the two did not persist,
yet he kept shooting after them but fortunately missed.

Mr O'Malley had five kids and, as he claims, no more
encounters with his wife, for he thinks intercourse is for
this purpose only, and his wife confirms he never glanced
at other ladies, never drank and never ever danced.

But Murphy caught him after Mass and pulled him to the side
and showed him Molly's photographs. His pupils opened wide,
and with a new-found lecherous grin upon his face he said,
unaware he spoke aloud, ‘I'd love to get my hands on that!’

Then there was dainty Mrs Walsh who hardly touched a bite;
as she would say, ‘To eat much more than needed isn't right.’
However, she did have a weak spot for banana bread –
one trip to Mrs Miggins, and her temperance would be dead.

So Murph invited Mrs Walsh to biscuits and to tea.
‘I'll have a nibble,’ she complied, tried a variety
of different types like bánh chuoi, and in the little space
of minutes she had lost control and stuffed her temperate face.

To make the world a better place, Jim Carr had volunteered
to help the homeless, feed the poor and, though the others sneered,
to spread God's word. They did forget his birthday, this is true,
but those who want to save mankind will say, ‘It's not 'bout you!’

‘There's agony throughout the world, but God and Church don't care,
and you won't make a difference; they don't even know you're there.’
He thought about what Murphy said, withdrawing more and more
from all his tasks, stays home and does not even answer the door.

‘You're seven down,’ Murph told the Lord when back at church. ‘You're mince,
for your most virtuous children have committed deadly sins.
I see your smirk has disappeared; don't ever mess with me
again!’ - But then his mobile rang; it was his wife's GP.

‘I didn't let you know before to let your grief subside,
but I must tell you that your wife was pregnant when she died.’
Murphy sat down and caught his breath, close to a heart attack;
he looked up at the crucifix, and Jesus' smirk was back.

Desperate and greatly flurried
Colonel York approached the store's
entrance with some fifty worried
riders and got off his horse.

Kate, the owners' sensual daughter,
greeted him and asked him in,
offered him a drink of water
and revealed a bit of skin.

Affably he was positioned
in the ‘honour seat’ before
one large curtain that partitioned
living area and store.

As Ma Bender started cooking,
Kate remarked, ‘If you allow,
John, my husband, will be looking
after all your horses now.’

With a side glance to her mother
Kate enquired, ‘What brings you here?’
Colonel York replied, ‘My brother
vanished earlier this year.

‘He was looking for a party
who themselves had disappeared,
and they'd all stayed here.’ The hearty
woman said, ‘This town is feared.

‘There have been a lot of cases
since the Indians were removed;
they still lurk around these places,
and their methods have improved.’

Then she claimed, ‘I hear your brother,’
closed her eyes and raised her head.
‘She's a medium,’ her mother
pointed out, ‘and calls the dead.’

Old Pa Bender grimly uttered
something, but there was no way
of discerning what he muttered.
‘And, what does my brother say?’ -

‘Sir, he wills you to locate and
execute the Osage who
robbed and killed him; hesitate, and
they'll be out of reach for you.’

Right behind him, undetected,
John stood ready but withdrew;
psychopathically connected
to his spouse, he got the cue.

Colonel York then left to question
other homesteads near the site.
‘I'll consider your suggestion,
but the thugs may well be white.’

Soon a meeting of all decent
men was hosted to propound
their ideas about the recent
disappearances around.

Brockman said, ‘What ails our village
are the Osage, doubt me not!
Since they were removed they pillage,
and they kill. Let's slay the lot!’

John and old Pa Bender strongly
nodded, but one neighbour's claim
was, ‘The Indians are wrongly
feared - the Benders are to blame!’

‘Which is possible if awful,’
York concluded. ‘We should look
at all homesteads, but the lawful
way; we'll do this by the book!’

As he waited for the warrants
which, he hoped, would turn the tide,
all the Osage suffered torrents
of abuse and homicide.

After days he was alerted
that amidst the township's fears
Bender's place had been deserted,
so he sent some volunteers.

As they pulled the place asunder,
they were in for quite a treat,
for they found a trap door under
the suspicious ‘honour seat’.

An unholy smell ascended
from the bloodstained pit below,
and the Colonel recommended
they start digging high and low.

Finally he found his brother
in the field as evening fell;
in the morning hours eight other
bodies were unearthed as well.

They'd been bludgeoned through the curtain
with a hammer to the head,
and their wide-slit throats made certain
they were genuinely dead.

One girl had been spared that trial,
though she, too, did not survive;
sadly, there was no denial
that they'd buried her alive.

When the story broke, the vendors
sold more papers and supplied
details since the Bloody Benders
now were wanted nationwide.

Following these revelations,
scores of vigilantes killed
them in dozens of locations
as their victims would have willed.

Quite merry and unmarried, Brynhild
put on her dancing shoes,
went to the ball with her rich lover
and told him the good news.

He snapped, threw Brynhild on the dance floor,
shouted at her and spat
her in the face and kicked her stomach,
turned round and grabbed his hat.

She got up early one bright morning,
sneaked to his door and smiled:
his breakfast milk, spiced up with strychnine,
avenged their unborn child.

She went aboard an ocean liner
thereafter, said farewell
to Norway, travelled to the States
and changed her name to Belle.

And there she married, had four children
and ran a little store
with Mads, her spouse, and bill collectors
who lined up at the door.

Alas, the store caught fire one evening,
the flames she could not douse,
but they were paid by the insurance
and bought a bigger house.

One day two of their little children,
just after lunch, turned white,
complained of stomach cramps and fever
and died that very night.

Belle cashed her children's life insurance
and for a modest sum
adopted little Jennie Olsen
who gladly called her Mum.

Yet all too soon she'd spent the money;
her husband in his mild
manner announced, ‘It seems we'll have to
trade in another child.’

But Belle had other plans. Her husband
died on the only day
when two insurance companies
were liable to pay.

She bought a farm, met Peter Gunness,
a rich man from La Porte
with his two daughters and got married;
their marriage was quite short.

His younger girl died in Belle's arms.
Months later, as she said,
parts of a falling sausage grinder
crushed Peter Gunness' head.

Gust Gunness heard the news and went to
his brother’s large estate
in time to save his other niece from
a corresponding fate.

As Belle cashed in the life insurance
(the best she's ever had),
Jennie confided in her classmate,
‘My mum has killed my dad.’

Jennie then faced the coroner's jury
but blatantly denied
her accusation; Belle was pregnant,
and so they let it slide.

Belle then employed and became involved with
the farmhand Ray, and when
Jennie was gone, she advertised in
the papers for a man:

Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.

The suitors came with loads of money
to prove their wealth; they found
a massive woman in her forties
but chose to stay around.

Their wealths were joined as she'd suggested,
of this there is no doubt:
dozens of men walked into her farmhouse,
but only one walked out.

George Anderson had gone to bed
after a glass of wine
while Ray was digging at the hog pen
and Belle was feeding swine.

But he awoke to quite a nightmare
in the middle of the night:
his sturdy hostess standing over
him in the dusky light.

With a foreboding stare, a cleaver
and a candle in her hand
she looked to him like the Grim Reaper
who had a special planned.

He screamed, she ran – he made his lucky
escape. Since this went wrong,
the pigs went hungry the next evening,
but not for very long.

The men kept coming and signed over
deeds and cashed cheques for Belle;
some relatives were asking questions
but disappeared as well.

Annoyed with him, she fired her farmhand
who claimed her as his spouse
and told police that he had threatened
that he'd burn down her house.

She hired a farmhand and a dainty
housekeeper who would fill
Ray's place, emptied her bank accounts
and then drew up her will.

That night the farmhand woke up smelling
a fire, ran down the stair
and called for help and kept on running,
still in his underwear.

But meanwhile the entire building
was burnt right to the ground;
amongst the debris soon Belle Gunness'
remaining kids were found.

Belle's tiny corpse lay right beside them;
they never found the head.
‘Look how the fire has shrunk her body,’
the county sheriff said.

The gruesome story spread like wildfire,
and anyone who read
it in the LA Times might also
have come across this ad:

Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.

Across the thicket near the railway tracks
a young morally torn assassin crept;
‘I’ll kill out of respect for life,’ he kept
telling himself while trying to relax.
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

For weeks now he had practised at his range
to shoot at moving targets and not miss
at all since killing innocents was his
main fear and almost caused his plans to change.
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘He has to die, or millions will,’ he thought.
‘This vitriolic demagogue gained fame
by spewing hatred; he’s the household name
for angry mob, a man who must be fought.’
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘This country’s media tycoon declares
that he’s the saviour, barely stopping short
of sainting him, conservatives support
this man to save their values and their shares.’
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘And the downtrodden mass agrees. “He’s right
to blame the Jews and liberals,” they shriek;
victims are always prone to blame the weak
because the guilty are so hard to fight.’
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘I know he’d wage a war involving all
neighbouring countries and a great deal more
to satisfy his ego; the Great War
would, in comparison, look like a brawl.’
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘And now he’s on the train which soon will be
passing whose great approval figures feed
on all the corporate and Allied greed
that plunged this country into bankruptcy.’
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

The presidential hopeful took a trip
to face a Weimar committee that day
who looked into the most peculiar way
the candidate obtained his citizenship.
He held on to his gun and lay in wait:
the rolling train would not decelerate.

‘Though I be hanged or spend my life in gaol,
if I’m successful, Hitler will not be
more than a footnote in our history,
and if I fail… By God, I must not fail!’
Vibrating tracks concluded his long wait;
the rolling train would not decelerate.

It was Palm Sunday in Puerto Rico;
Georgina and her parents, after Mass,
stood at the street to cheer the long-awaited
parade of liberty which soon would pass.

A five-piece band performed La Borinqueña;
the march began, and hundreds filled the street,
dressed in their Sunday best, to watch the pageant,
waving their palm leaves to fend off the heat.

‘What are they marching for?’ Georgina wondered.
‘They celebrate the end of slavery
sixty-four years ago tomorrow under
our Spanish masters; yet we’ve ne’er been free.

‘They also want Pedro Albizu Campos
to be released who organised some strikes;
employers must pay close to living wages
now, which the spoilt establishment dislikes.

‘Obstructing Puerto Rico’s exploitation,
Pedro was deemed a traitor hence and sent
to prison for allegedly attempting
to overthrow the US government.

‘Last but not least they’re marching for our freedom,
for independence from their businessmen;
we do not want to serve colonial masters,
we want our country to ourselves again.’

And as the glorious parade approached them,
the little girl enthusiastically
hurled her belovèd palm frond on the asphalt
to pave the way for those who’d set them free.

Police had cordoned off the city centre
and started shooting, eager to comply
with Puerto’s governor’s explicit orders,
at marchers, onlookers and passers-by.

Policemen chased randomly chosen victims,
and the survivors tell us how they saw
men, women, pensioners and children shot at
or clubbed to death by forces of the law.

‘Back to the church!’ Georgina’s parents shouted,
but as she reached the door and looked around,
a bullet struck her back, and within moments
her lifeless body tumbled to the ground.

A boy who dipped his hand into his gaping
wound wrote with his own blood, his mind aghast,
‘Long live the Republic, down with the assassins!’
upon a wall before he breathed his last.

Eventually the massacre was over.
Hundreds were injured. Twenty-one were dead
(including two policemen killed by colleagues).
Their mission was accomplished. Puerto bled.

Thereafter the police chief staged some photos
to give the public, lest it lose its ease,
the firm impression that they had reacted
to snipers on the roofs and balconies.

Spilt brains and blood were left to dry in gutters
as the police force headed back to base.
It was Palm Sunday in Puerto Rico,
the day the Puerto Ricans learnt their place.

She has humiliated and belittled
me once again, the battleaxe who bore
me long ago and constantly has whittled
away my confidence since days of yore.

I must get out, away from this abusive
intoxicated dragon, and as far
as possible to relish my illusive
freedom, and I go cruising in my car.

I’m trying to calm down as I am driving,
and yet the car seems like another cage
surrounding me; no matter how I’m striving,
nothing will ever end this rage, this rage!

I wonder why my troubled life denied me
a mother I could love instead of hate,
just like the children who grew up beside me,
cherished by those who chose to procreate.

Two hitchhikers stand by the road; the second
the girls climb in I curse myself, still sane,
for not resisting when occasion beckoned,
but I’m determined not to snap again.

‘Mills College is the left lane’; they’re uneasy
as I turn right. ‘This is the way,’ I say,
and if they knew my history, the queasy
girls would not want to go the other way.

They start to panic; though I’m reassuring
them of my good intentions, the well-versed
students stop talking and begin enduring,
sit stiffly in their seats and fear the worst.

But I stay firm amidst the girls’ confusion;
their way leads, which of course they wouldn’t know,
to the lone country road in whose seclusion
I killed the first two girls one year ago.

At Mills the ride is over that forever
will haunt the two young ladies as they flee
from me and from my car and who will never
know that I had just saved their lives from me.

And I’ll make sure to never kill another
young girl by giving in to madness’ call.
With every girl I killed, I killed my mother;
let’s get this over with once and for all!

I’ll end my suffering and that conceited
sadist with one last act against my kin
and call, once my fierce mission is completed,
my friends the cops to turn myself right in.

The noose was tightened and a plan
required; the former congressman
and wealthiest tycoon on Earth
who kept his billions in a stash
as he preferred to deal with cash
at last would get his actions’ worth.

For two long decades he had run
the country foreigners would shun;
Colombia, amidst its strives,
became, as his career unfurled,
the Murder Capital of the World,
and terror ruled its people’s lives.

The drug lord wrote the nation’s law
by bribing those in charge; he saw
to it that those who were opposed
to his financial enterprise
were shot to expedite his rise
to power, and their case was closed.

He killed policemen, judges, men,
women and even children when
it served his ends, blew out the brains
of ministers, reporters, foes
and friends who stepped upon his toes,
bombed buildings, cars and aeroplanes.

He, as he tarred the streets with gore,
built schools and houses for the poor;
thus Pablo Escobar, inspired
by Al Capone and Robin Hood
eliminated all who stood
between him and what he desired.

But other drug lords threatened him,
his wife and children, and the grim
state of affairs just worsened when
a presidential candidate
was murdered by his hitmen at
a speech who hurt another ten.

Besides, he knew there were debates
to extradite him to the States
(the market for his drug cartel)
once he was captured, and he gave
preference to a Colombian grave
rather than to a US cell.

So Pablo managed to appease
the bothersome authorities
with a deal of which they would avail:
he built himself a large resort
with disco, bar and football court,
serving as maximum comfort gaol.

And here the jolly ward of the state
continued still to operate
his business, to put out, unbound,
contracts on those he disavowed,
to party with the usual crowd
and have his family around.

But when, while still interred, he killed
four of his men, the blood he spilled
sparked the officials to prepare
his transfer to a proper gaol,
and so he left and left no trail
to be most wanted everywhere.

Few friends remained where he could stay;
police observed them, anyway,
and nothing could prevent his fall.
So Escobar, while on the run,
picked up the phone and rang his son
for long enough to trace the call.

They soon located him and sped;
he jumped onto the roof and fled
from them, then turned around and shot.
‘You won’t catch me alive!’ he cried.
‘We don’t intend to,’ they replied,
and so he shared his victims’ lot.

If you’re a person of no wealth,
depend on social benefits
and struggle with your mental health,
it’s hard to find a room; your wits
are ready to depart, there are
no relatives, no friends, no spouse
who care, but count your lucky star:
there’s Dorothea’s boarding house.
Call in some day! I guarantee
with her you’ll find, beyond a doubt,
a place to stay and company;
she’ll take you in and take you out.

She will look after you from six
a.m. and urge you to relax,
she’ll get your medications, fix
your drinks and cash your welfare cheques.
She’ll bring your post up to your bed
and read it as you listen, no
more forced to worry your poor head
about your woes from long ago.
Call in some day! I guarantee
with her you’ll find, beyond a doubt,
a place to stay and company;
she’ll take you in and take you out.

Her well-known charity is hard
to beat; she, too, hires convicts who
dig man-sized holes all o’er the yard
to give them something apt to do.
The lady in the floral blouse
appreciates your constant strive,
and after you have left her house,
your welfare cheques will still arrive.
Call in some day! I guarantee
with her you’ll find, beyond a doubt,
a place to stay and company;
she’ll take you in and take you out.

This court has never held that the Constitution forbids the execution of a convicted defendant who has had a full and fair trial but is later able to convince a habeas court that he is 'actually' innocent.
(Meaning: It is not unconstitutional to have an innocent person executed.)
- Judge Scalia, US Supreme Court

It's worse than you thought, Frank. It's darker in here than you would have imagined.
- John Bennett Allen, US juror and author who assisted me in my research

‘It was Hernandez,’ Carlos DeLuna protested;
the information that he was providing
was slighted, and so he, while being arrested,
took a deep breath and once again declared,
'I saw him leave!' - 'Then why have you been hiding?' -
'I'm on parole, and that's why I got scared!'

‘And got this far? You must be quite a sprinter,’
a policeman said; another one was muddled
because to him a person who in winter
walks barefoot and without shirt made little sense.
‘Where are your shoes and shirt?’ he asked, befuddled.
‘I must have lost them when I scaled the fence.’

A short time earlier a petrol station
had been robbed; the shop attendant who was calling
police reported that the situation
was escalating quickly, and the man
stabbed her repeatedly. When she was falling,
passing another customer, he ran.

Soon Wanda Lopez died, and the extensive
search was called off right after the quick capture
of him, the only suspect, and the pensive
DeLuna faced the witness from the car.
'You're sure that's him?' a policeman asked with rapture
and added with a smile, 'I'm sure you are.'

A bystander was sceptic: ‘I’m recalling
quite well that you described a young Hispanic
with a moustache; you think it has been falling
off him, or has he shaved as he did flee?’
The witness frowned at him but didn't panic:
‘It was so dark, I didn’t really see.’

Another witness joined the congregation,
telling police that earlier he'd detected
a man who had been lurking round the station
and told the young attendant she should call
police; he, too, identified the suspected
DeLuna whose guilt was now assumed by all.

Meanwhile a vast police force trampled through the
footprints of blood, a sight not for faint-hearted
souls, and took photographs. One said, 'Let's do the
paperwork now. - That would be all, I guess.'
They took the knife, five dollars and departed,
telling the night shift to clean up the mess.

Carlos DeLuna's eyes grew tired and misty
from some detectives' concentrated roasting;
meanwhile the busy police in Corpus Christi
were swamped by many witnesses who'd call
and claim Carlos Hernandez had been boasting
he'd murdered her and DeLuna would take the fall.

His spotless shoes and shirt were soon located
in which he must have butchered the attendant;
lacking physical evidence, the fated
case hinged upon the witness who, despite
being sure, tried twice to point out the defendant
in court - the second time he got it right.

‘Convince the court of your sincere repentance,
plead guilty, and we'll have a speedy trial,
and at the end the judge will only sentence
you to serve life, but you won't die.’- 'I guess
you didn't take the time to read my file -
I'm innocent, and I will not confess!'

But prosecution kept, without cessation,
pressuring him, 'Confess it, we implore you!
You have been seen escaping from the station,
we know that you were present at the time!
You've been identified by two who saw you:
one in the yard, and one commit the crime!'

'The man they saw was Carlos Hernandez, won't you
listen to me, I beg!' DeLuna blurted
out. 'We appear to look alike; why don't you
bring him into the courtroom, and you'll see!
'Hernandez is a phantom,' they asserted,
knowing the phantom was in custody.

He'd robbed another station with unflagging
cruelty, and in his cell he kept on shocking
the other inmates with his constant bragging.
He also told the others of the day
he'd murdered Wanda Lopez and kept mocking
Carlos DeLuna who would have to pay.

The prosecution's case was fear-inspiring;
the claims DeLuna made were all rejected
until at last the jury were retiring.
Eventually the jurors came back out
and announced their verdict, being, as expected,
'Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.'

In Ellis Unit's prison yard another
young inmate said, ‘They also had to chase me
for several hours before they caught me, brother.
You stabbed a shop assistant, as I've heard?' -
'It was Hernandez; they can't even place me
inside the station where the crime occurred.

'They have no evidence, and so they chiefly
relied on the accounts of two misguided
witnesses who believe that they have briefly
seen me as I supposedly ran away.’ -
'Welcome to death row; towels are provided.
I'm Joe, and I will be your guide today.'

The two of them discussed their murder cases
over the years that followed and kept talking
about their fears and all the many places
they would have liked to see, about reprieve
and death, and when the two of them were walking
the yard, they wondered who'd be first to leave.

'Who is the new arrival? Seems that guy is
too young by far to queue for execution.' -
'They say that he's religious but impious;
Johnny Frank Garrett, quite a quiet one,
who was a minor when, as prosecution
convinced the court, he raped and killed a nun.'

His final hour had come at last; DeLuna
talked to the chaplain who remarked, ‘God sent us
a lot of tests and trials, and the sooner…’ -
‘Will I be suffering?’ Carlos enquired.
'You'll be unconscious once the needle enters -
it's swift and painless, just as you desired.'

They strapped the dead man walking to the gurney,
and the barbiturate was then injected.
Embarking on his long and final journey,
Carlos DeLuna never closed his eyes,
stared at the chaplain, turned his head and acted
as if he tried to speak, to his surprise.

And once again his restless head was moving
from side to side; it looked like he did ponder
his life and what went wrong; then, disapproving
of his unrighteous fate, DeLuna tried
to tell the world once more who murdered Wanda,
and with that name nobody heard he died.

Joe then befriended Johnny, only hours
after DeLuna passed away, ungrieving.
'I have been framed by paranormal powers,
but I am sure the system cannot fail
the innocent, and I keep on believing
that in the long run justice will prevail.' -

'Believe you me, the system's gonna fail you!'
Joe's cynical approach seemed very buoyant.
'Now tell me, son, how did they get to nail you -
by witchcraft, polygraph or crystal ball?' -
'I was accused by Bubbles the Clairvoyant,
a woman whose dream revealed my guilt to all.

'Ten elder women living in my city
had been attacked and raped by a Hispanic
man who displayed no diffidence nor pity
as he broke in and brutally fulfilled
his sick desires, less human than satanic,
and Narnie Bryson was the first he killed.

'That lady had been beaten, mutilated,
raped and then suffocated with her pillow,
and in the end the fiend, with unabated
force, strangled her and took her life away:
the devil had arrived in Amarillo
and still remains there to this very day.

'On Halloween the culprit was pursuing
his quest for female pensioners, the oddest
fetish a man could harbour, and in doing
so broke into the convent in my street
where he assaulted, raped and stabbed a modest
nun in her bedroom as his holiday treat.

'Like Bryson, Sister Tadea had been working
with Cuban refugees; it was alluded
the brute was one of them - one was seen lurking
around and later running from the scene
of the crime, and therefore DA Hill concluded
her killer had struck again on Halloween.

‘The generous evidence the perpetrator
had left behind was hastily collected:
a knife and semen they disposed of later,
patches of blood and lots of curly black hair
from bed and nightgown, others were detected
upon her face and body - everywhere!

'Local police succeeded soon in catching
a Cuban whom they questioned at the station,
but since the suspect's blood type wasn't matching
the killer's, they released him, and no gleam
of hope encouraged their investigation
till Bubbles saw the murder in a dream.

'She told policemen of a brown-haired slender
teenager who possessed the facial features
and ears of Abraham Lincoln; the offender,
her dream had shown, was living in a small
white house nearby and drove his mum and teachers
insane by being as slow as he was tall.

'And so a few policemen chauffeured Bubbles
around the busy town until she spotted
our small white house, and that is when my troubles
and tribulations started to unfurl.
I was arrested, and since then I've rotted
in prison for the vision of a girl.

'It's true, though, that my fingerprints were lifted
at the scene; a friend and I, a few days prior,
had helped them to move furniture and sifted
through drawers and compartments to collect
some necklaces. They're calling me a liar,
though Tim has testified to that effect.

'They sentenced me to death, not even viewing
the other evidence, called me a demon,
they told me that they knew what I'd been doing
but never matched my footprints, blood or hair
to that found at the scene, threw out the semen
and dared to tell me that my trial was fair.

'What's more, they didn't even believe my mother
that I was home and were not even trying
to blame me for the murder of the other
woman he'd killed. There was no doubt about
the jury's verdict who will have me dying:
"Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."'

'Do you have some last words?' - The man inflamed him;
Johnny Frank Garrett, while the clock was ticking,
put a sinister curse on those who framed him.
'And is there anything besides this?' - 'Yes,
I thank my friends and family for sticking
with me. The rest of the world can kiss my ass!'

But when the needle started to deliver
the lethal injection, Johnny soon turned stiller;
he couldn't scream nor moan nor breathe nor shiver
until the executioner's work was done,
twelve years before they captured Bryson's killer
who also bragged he'd raped and killed a nun.

A few months after Johnny's death the callous
Joe met someone most other men were spurning
or attacking. While the rugged men at Ellis
enjoyed each others' presence, few of them
were talking to the man accused of burning
his children: Cameron Todd Willingham.

Will the United States continue killing
their suspects without evidence, I wonder?
Will the medieval system keep on spilling
innocent blood to please and scare the crowd,
or close a case, or cover up a blunder? -
They will, beyond a reasonable doubt.

According to a 2014 study at least 4.1% of all those executed in the United States are innocent.

He left the pub; his footing was unstable,
and he could feel the drink in every limb.
He crossed the street as far as he was able,
and then he saw the car in front of him;
he scrutinised the driver through his lenses
before he crushed the windscreen with his head,
lay on the bonnet and dismissed his senses.
One of his friends was sure that he was dead
and argued that it was too late
to help him, but another mate
called, while some helpers took him down,
an ambulance for Zig McGown.

Onlookers gathered, and a witness noted
he was the finest actor in the South.
The ambulance came flying; two devoted
young men jumped out and gave him mouth-to-mouth,
opened the back and threw their patient in it,
swiftly switched on the siren and were gone.
They reached the hospital within a minute,
but oxygen was leaking, and anon
the ambulance blew up; the men
recovered from the shock and then
went to the back where with a frown
they rescued parts of Zig McGown.

The daisies blossomed, and the tart aroma
of disinfectant spread across the ward
where Zig McGown lay in a months-long coma,
halfway between the doctor and the Lord.
One afternoon his caring wife nipped over;
her lover hid behind a patient's screen,
and as she kissed her husband, she tripped over
the cables of the life support machine.
One groan, one jerk - then all was still
save the alarm clock on the sill,
and they bemoaned all over town
the funny death of Zig McGown.

‘Children, even though we're famished,
be not tempted to resort
to the custom we don't speak of
lest your souls be torn athwart.

‘With the rotting corpses lying
all around us in the mud,
don't eat anybody's body,
don't drink anybody's blood.

‘If you do, you'll have a nightmare,
and the Windigo will rise
from your dreams and wake you roughly
to an odious surprise.

‘You will smell his desiccated
decomposing yellow skin,
see his lipless face and antlers
and his diabolic grin.

‘With his massive claws he'll grab you,
claws to penetrate and slash,
till he finally will sink his
jagged fangs into your flesh.

‘Growing as he eats but never
full, his stomach an abyss,
he is forced to keep on feeding
while remaining ravenous.

‘Once he has devoured your body,
he will prey on those nearby,
and it's only by starvation
that the scrawny beast can die.'

'Twas a gloomy Sunday evening
and the children were in bed
when the Windigo came reaping
both the living and the dead.

When spirits are evicted
from their locations,
with tribulations
and worries they're afflicted.

The ghost then roams the mountains
and haunts the highlands,
the plains and islands,
the holy wells and fountains.

Without a home he's screamin'
in woods and valleys,
in yards and alleys,
the shadow of a demon.

But Father Flynn of Baygrant
once met a witty
ghost and took pity
on wraiths displaced and vagrant.

He made their plight his mission
and helter-skelter
provided shelter
for many an apparition.

His kindness and his labours
were soon rewarded;
his spectres hoarded
the chattel of the neighbours.

He granted absolution
and kept the plunder;
his flock felt under
unearthly persecution.

But those who faced the parson
incurred the visits
of grisly spirits,
committing theft and arson.

The greedy cleric nourished
God's lost creations;
for generations
the Ghost's Asylum flourished.

Still preaching and forgiving,
he reaps his perks here;
though he still works here,
God knows if he's still living.

As the local crime reporter
once I had my stint of glory
when they captured Psycho Corter
and I was there at the scene -
since then I haven't had a thrilling story
until I found the Mum of Halloween.

It all started when Jane Rafter,
journalist, fell past my office
on the thirteenth floor. Thereafter,
with a thud, she hit the ground;
they gave the story to some callow novice
and left me once again with Lost and Found.

She was popular and wealthy,
she had seen all lands and nations,
was successful, young and healthy
while I struggled fruitlessly:
a miracle with lavish decorations
could have sufficed to keep my job - maybe.

As I walked back home, the city
was engaged in speculation,
and her suicide caused pity
everywhere. Back home from town,
I found a parcel; with anticipation
I lit the fire, unwrapped it and sat down.

In a note Jane Rafter told me
how she loved my work on Corter,
that she hated how they sold me
out, and that she wanted me
to publicise her scrapbook: the reporter
who does not bow to pleb nor bourgeoisie.

In her scrapbook she admired
old Liz Bathory, the lady
by whose deeds she was inspired
and whose record she would break,
'Six hundred fifty is not bad, my Lady,
but you got caught for making a mistake.

'I got thousand, unsuspected,
and won't hear the condemnation
of the masses. I corrected
flaws that caused the others' fall:
they chose one type of victim, one location,
and just one single way to kill them all.

'Children, men and women perished
by my knife, my hands, my pistol,
poison, rope and my most cherished
baseball bat that bears my name,
from Nuuk to Perth and from Okhotsk to Bristol;
nobody thought the killer was the same.

'No one ever killed as many
as I did, constantly moving,
and I do not think that any
other person ever will.'
She had attached the victims' pictures, proving
she was the one who made each single kill.

'Why pick me?' - I felt like crying.
Suddenly the air grew chiller,
and the fire was nearly dying;
not supporting her desire
to be the world's most famous serial killer,
I threw her note and scrapbook in the fire.

Once people built their homes with stones they took from
the cairn where legend says Queen Maeve
lies buried with her sword; when they were carried
away, somebody robbed the grave.

And on the day that followed storm clouds gathered
heavily over Sligo Bay;
the fearful farmers soon brought in their cattle
and stowed their carts and tools away.

Chief Constable McGuire was disappointed:
he knew he caught the highwayman,
but as no loot was found in Murphy's cottage,
he had to let him go again.

That night he stumbled homewards through the tempest,
hoping the fire had been put on
for him already, but on his arrival
he found his wife Edel was gone.

Man will break up; he'll talk about the reasons
and slam the door right in your face -
woman sneaks out; she'll leave the back door open
and disappear without a trace.

For days, for months or years she'll keep you guessing
what happened since you last have met;
forever you will rack your brains, not knowing
whether to worry or forget.

A crowd of peasants woke him after midnight,
entreating him to lose no time;
they said the old McGuires had just been murdered
and brought him to the scene of the crime.

It was the first time that he saw his parents
who always vaunted their success
since they had disinherited their offspring
for marrying a local lass.

He was appalled when looking at their bodies,
cut clean in half from head to crutch,
and he remembered how they used to fawn on
their better half they loved so much.

The witnesses' reports appeared fantastic,
but their accounts were in accord:
the murderess was a tall and handsome lady
on horseback with a golden sword.

He searched for evidence that indicated
who sent his folks to Fiddler's Green,
but while investigating, he was summoned
to yet another murder scene.

Murphy lay cut in half beside the highway;
though armed, he couldn't save his life;
he wore the hat and mask he'd worn that evening
he stopped McGuire and robbed his wife.

Many a female suspect was arrested,
interrogated and then sent
to gaol, but just before she hanged, another
murder would prove her innocent.

Although McGuire appointed guards and watchmen,
the homicides continued still:
his wife who had been living with a farmhand
was found in and beside a rill.

The county lived in fear, firmly believing
that darkest forces were unfurled,
and the concerned chief constable was left now
without an enemy in the world.

One morning he had all his men assembled,
his face was pale, his voice was grave,
‘I found the answer to the Warrior Murders -
I think we’re looking for Queen Maeve!

‘There is a postulate,’ the chief remembered,
‘that has been taught since ancient Greece:
the soul of one whose body is not covered
by earth can never rest in peace.

‘Who rose her from the grave controls her spirit,
and she will act at his command;
wherever hidden, she will trace his victims -
no one can stop her if we can't!'

Hundreds of volunteers swarmed out to help them
and combed the hill, the glen, the strand;
they found her stately skeleton in the woodland,
her bloodstained sword clasped in her hand.

Once more the Queen was buried by the peasants
who piled up stones and made the vow
not to disturb her bones upon the mountain,
and there she rests in peace - for now.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster gently
lowered the veil of night upon
his planet, and an hour later
the last rays of the sun were gone.

Marco was waiting for his girlfriend
who only came to him at night,
although her odd behaviour made him
suspect that something wasn’t right.

When going out, she’d be insisting
that he (who rarely disappoints)
shun his beloved Italian bistro
and visit seedy burger joints.

She hated crossbones with a vengeance
unequalled, and he once had seen
her flinch when kids dressed up as pirates
knocked at his door on Halloween.

Her fear of pasta, garlic, sunlight
and buccaneers was of concern,
but no concern could have prepared him
for what he was about to learn.

That night the evening news reported
that local volunteers had found
his predecessor who had vanished -
killed, drained of blood and lastly drowned.

So she was, after all, a vampire;
the thought had crossed his mind before,
and he was ready for the showdown
when she was standing at the door.

Directly after he had opened,
Marco, amidst love’s torrid pangs,
held out the sacred pasta strainer
and watched as she exposed her fangs.

He placed it on her head and wondered
how many pasta-fearing souls
she had devoured as he observed her
evaporating through the holes.

She tried to take it off, but sadly
her hands just vaporised like this
on contact, and the ghastly creature
expired with one unearthly hiss.

Marco took pride in his achievement
even his love could not deter,
and the colander on the threshold
was all reminding him of her.

Khrabanas and his wife Khrabina strutted
across the cornfield as the sun stood high,
but when a burst of gunshots barely missed them,
they sought the shelter of the woods nearby.

After the shock they made their journey homewards
and checked that all their young ones were all right,
and, to be safe, the two stayed on the lookout
throughout the evening and throughout the night.

Next day their oldest one announced, ‘I'm ready
to leave the nest and Mummy's apron strings,’
but Father said, ‘It'll be another fortnight
before the lot of you can spread your wings.’

‘Don't get your glossy feathers in a ruffle,’
his son replied, got up and stood upon
the threshold of their lofty nest, undaunted,
‘Watch, I can fly!’ he shouted and was gone.

He flapped a little on his travel downwards
and landed in the bushes on his back;
the farmer's drooling dog came running over,
considering the raven chick a snack.

It soon let go as the protective parents
kept pecking at its head and fled in fear;
the chick was brought to safety, but they worried,
‘Let's hope it doesn't lead the farmer here!’

When later on they found a rabbit's carcass
amidst the field, Khrabanas played it safe,
‘The farmer may have laced the corpse with poison;
let's feed the dog to find out if it's treyf.’

And so he soared above the shabby doghouse
and dropped a bone beside the creature's head;
as he returned to it a short time later,
the troublesome revolting dog was dead.

One morning as the mother fed the young ones,
the foaming farmer shouted, ‘You are done!
Now that I've found your nest, you bloody ravens
will go to hell!’ spat out and aimed his gun.

The parents swooped at him, but at that moment
the gun went off and killed the chicks. They flew
around their blood-stained nest; the angry farmer
kept firing, smirked and swore, ‘I'll get you, too!’

When realising there were no survivors,
the broken-hearted couple did depart
to find another place and build a dwelling,
and far away they heard an engine start.

‘We won't be safe as long as there's the farmer,
nor will our future chicks, and it seems right
that I take vengeance for our murdered children,’
Khrabanas croaked and left the building site.

Later that evening he returned in triumph,
‘The hated farmer joined his filthy dog;
as he was chasing me, the nasty human
took his own life and now lies in the bog.

‘I guessed whatever hits us leaves his weapon
through holes which I blocked off with pebbles, so
the thing exploded in his face and killed him.’ -
‘I'd like to see it for myself.’ - ‘Let's go!’

They found an empty scene. ‘He must have sunken
into the bog,’ he said with hopeful heart.
‘I reckon so,’ Khrabina told her husband
as far away they heard an engine start.

The playful young girls of Kilkenny
all adored the grim man who had left
their poor fathers without a penny
and their mothers of honour bereft.

A short man with a much shorter temper,
the old scrooge was the dream of each maid,
but the one to put clothes in his hamper
was none other than Jo McDaid.

On her wedding day people got nervous
as did Jo McDaid and her spouse;
of the guests that attended the service
only half went back to their house.

The stars of the Major Arcana
gently smiled upon those who had fled,
and Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

As the newly-wed couple were strutting,
the big chandelier fell down
between the two dancers, cutting
big holes in his suit and her gown.

And soon someone found Nirvana
while looking for needle and thread,
for Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

The surviving guests left the party
while mumbling ‘It's getting quite late,’
and the bridesmaid bade them a hearty
farewell as they rushed to the gate.

The bridegroom, in shorts from Montana,
lay alone in his bridal bed,
because Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.

Now you know the bride's name and how purely
her young heart kept the love that compels;
if you find out her husband's, you surely
will be blessed by the virgins of Kells.