There is someone lies dead in the bushes,
left with naught save his 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 exploited alternative incomes,
not depending on people’s good will.

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 nobleman 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 hitch
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, as his trademark
he’d roll over their head 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!

In 1786, Billy the Bowl was convicted of (a rather crude case of) attempted robbery. However, many people believed that this was not his first time; some suspected that his previous victims had been too embarrassed to come forward, others supported the more morbid theory that they didn’t live to tell the tale, creating the legend of the mass-murdering invalid.

‘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 under her stiff baleen:
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 beloved 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.’

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 has been arranged by a canon
who had 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.

The August sun unclosed his gates
and smiled on Sligo Bay
where six young women from the States
enjoyed their holiday.

It wasn’t since their childhood that
they saw their native land,
and with a blithe innocuous chat
they sauntered towards the strand.

And there they all tied back their curls,
preparing for a swim,
when an old man approached the girls,
his mien upset and grim:

'Don't swim today! No one is safe;
out on the sea, not far
from here I saw a dark black wave -
the Death Wave of Cuil Irra!'

The women giggled, and they said:
'Old men are so naive -
there's not a myth or legend that
these folk would not believe!'

And as the sound of his heavy boots
was slowly fading away,
they slipped into their bathing suits
and headed for the bay.

One stayed behind - she didn’t heed
the others who’d beseech
her to join in; she’d sit and read
and watch them from the beach.

And further out, and further out
they ventured like the erne:
they didn’t hear their comrade shout
who urged them to return.

And where the water nymphs abide
in the shadow of Queen Maeve,
they saw a tall blonde lady ride
upon a sombre wave.

Her hair was shining like the sun
that framed her naked breasts,
and with her gentle smile she won
the affection of her guests.

Her eyes were blue as is the sea,
the spray pearled off her skin
as she commanded: ‘Come with me
to the Island of Maguin!’

The women watched her, willingly
and keenly following,
but halfway to the island she
became a different thing.

Her golden locks turned into snakes,
foul scales appeared beneath
her waist, and like a row of stakes
she showed her canine teeth.

The frightened women turned away
in terror, and they fought
to escape her grip, but soon the bay
claimed what it long had sought.

And seconds later they were gone
to share the icy grave
of all who e’er laid eyes upon
the Sorceress of the Wave.

No one encountered her of late;
she hides from sun and star,
but somewhere she still lies in wait –
the Death Wave of Cuil Irra!

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’s hoping
you’ll help her before it’s too late.

‘She’ll wait in the yard or the driveway
of 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, I was with a client;
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.

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.

That house burned down as well, and with the
insurance money paid
they bought an even better home
where their children laughed and played.

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 little sum
adopted a girl called 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 and met Pete Gunness,
a rich man from La Porte
with his two daughters. They got married;
their marriage was quite short.

His younger girl died in Belle’s arms.
While working in the shed
to fix a chair, a sausage grinder
fell on Pete Gunness’ head.

Gust Gunness heard the news and rushed to
his brother Pete’s 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 engaged to
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.

They did succeed in joining fortunes,
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 candlelight.

With a foreboding stare, a cleaver
and a pad of chloroform
she looked to him like the Grim Reaper,
lit by a thunderstorm.

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 strove to be her 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
in his white 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 L.A. 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.

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

'No, it was Hernandez'; climbing
in the car, Carlos De Luna
realised his awkward timing,
took a breath and then declared:
'I saw him leave!' - 'And didn't tell us sooner?' -
'I drank, though on parole, and I got scared!'

'That's why you were hiding under
pickups? No one will defend you!
Where's your shirt and shoes, I wonder?' -
'When I scaled a fence, the shirt
got stuck.' The cop replied: 'I understand you.
If I was in your shoes, I, too, would spurt!'

Minutes earlier a station
had been robbed; the clerk was calling
9-1-1, the situation
escalated, and the man
stabbed her repeatedly. When she was falling,
passing another customer, he ran.

Wanda Lopez died. The fitness
of police made sure to capture
their sole suspect, and the witness
was brought over to the car.
'Are you quite sure that's him?', one asked with rapture
and added with a smile: 'I'm sure you are.'

One was sceptic: 'I'm recalling
that you mentioned a Hispanic
with a moustache; was it falling
off? And can you answer me:
where's his grey shirt?' - The witness didn't panic:
'It was quite dark, I didn't really see.'

The police force trampled through the
bloody footprints, not faint-hearted,
and took photographs. 'Let's do the
paperwork. - That's all, I guess.'
They took the knife, five dollars and departed,
telling the day shift clerk to clean the mess.

As De Luna's eyes grew misty
from a few detectives' roasting,
the police in Corpus Christi
soon were swamped with many a call,
claiming Carlos Hernandez had been boasting
about the Lopez murder in a brawl.

The authorities kept searching
for the driver who'd warned Wanda
of a man whom he'd seen lurching,
and who caused her to alert
police; meanwhile a man discovered under
a bush De Luna's shoes and clean white shirt.

Without evidence that placed him
at the scene, they were dependant
on that witness; once they traced him,
he, asked whom he saw that night,
made two attempts to point out the defendant
in court - the second time he got it right.

'If you demonstrate repentance
and plead guilty during trial,
we will give you a life sentence;
you won't have to die.' - 'I guess
you didn't take the time to read my file -
I'm innocent, and I shall not confess!'

Prosecution, without cessation,
said: 'Confess it, we implore you!
You were running from the station,
you were present at the time!
You've been identified by two who saw you:
one at the door, and one commit the crime!'

'No, it was Hernandez, won't you
listen, please!', De Luna blurted
out. 'We look alike; why don't you
bring Hernandez here - you'll see!' -
'Hernandez is a phantom', they asserted,
knowing the phantom was in custody.

After his arrest for robbing
yet another store with shocking
cruelty, Hernandez, gobbing
blissfully, talked of the day
he'd murdered Wanda Lopez and kept mocking
Carlos De Luna who would have to pay.

Though De Luna kept enquiring,
all his statements were neglected,
and the jury were retiring.
When the jurors came back out,
the verdict was announced, just as expected:
'Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt'.

In the prison yard, an inmate
asked him: 'Carlos, will you grace me
with your presence? How've you been, mate?
You have stabbed a clerk, I heard?' -
'It was Hernandez; they can't even place me
inside the station where the crime occurred.

'They've no evidence, and chiefly
all they have are two misguided
witnesses who think they briefly
saw me in the dark that day.' -
'Welcome to death row; Uncle Sam decided.
I'm Joe, and I will be your guide today.'

Both discussed their murder cases
in the years that followed, talking
of their apprehensive chases,
of appeal and of reprieve,
and every time the two of them were walking
the yard, they wondered who'd be first to leave.

'Who is this? It seems that guy is
far too young for this solution.' -
'He is said to be impious;
that is Johnny Garrett, son,
who was a minor when, as prosecution
convinced the court, he raped and killed a nun.'

When his time had come, De Luna
met the chaplain. 'God has sent us
many trials, and the sooner...' -
'Will I suffer?', he enquired..
'You'll be unconscious once the needle enters -
it's swift and painless, just as you desired.'

He was strapped into the gurney
and the needle was injected.
Going on his final journey,
Carlos never closed his eyes,
stared at the chaplain, turned his head and acted
as if he tried to speak, to his surprise.

Once again his head was moving
to the side as if he'd ponder
over something. Disapproving
of his fate, De Luna tried
to tell the world once more who murdered Wanda,
and with that name nobody heard he died.

Joe befriended Johnny hours
after Carlos went, ungrieving.
'I've been framed by mystic powers,
but the system can not fail
the innocent on death row; I'm believing
that in the long run justice will prevail.' -

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

'Ten old women in my city
have been raped by a Hispanic
man who showed no shame nor pity
as he brutally fulfilled
his sick desires, less human than satanic,
and Narnie Bryson was the first he killed.

'She'd been raped and badly beaten,
suffocated with her pillow,
and then strangled by the cretin
till her life had slipped away:
the devil had arrived in Amarillo,
and still remains there to this very day.

'Halloween the culprit gambled -
raped another geriatric,
leaving her for dead, and ambled
to the convent in my street
where he proceeded to pursue a hat trick
by butchering a nun as trick-or-treat.

'Just like Narnie Bryson, Sister
Tadea Benz had long been working
with the refugees; when Mister
Hill, DA, was called and came,
a witness claimed he'd seen a Cuban lurking
around - Hill said the killer was the same.

'Everything the perpetrator
left behind was soon collected:
semen they disposed of later,
blood and bundles of black hair
from bed and nightgown, others were detected
upon her face and body - everywhere!

'Afterwards police were catching
their main suspect; from the station;
since the blood types weren't matching,
they released him, and no gleam
of hope encouraged their investigation
till Bubbles saw the murder in a dream.

'She described a brown-haired slender
teenager with facial features
like Abe Lincoln; the offender,
as she said, lived in a small
white house nearby and drove his mum and teachers
insane by being as slow as he was tall.

'So policemen chauffeured Bubbles
round the town until she spotted
our white house; that's when my troubles
slowly started to unfurl.
I was arrested, and since then I've rotted
in prison for the vision of a girl.

'True, my fingerprints were lifted
at the scene; a few days prior
Tim, my friend, and I had sifted
through her drawers to collect
some necklaces. They're calling me a liar,
though Tim has testified to that effect.

'They condemned me without viewing
evidence, called me a demon,
said they knew what I'd been doing,
never matched my blood or hair
to that found at the scene, threw out the semen,
and dared to tell me that my trial was fair.

'They did not believe my mother,
and they weren't even trying
to connect me to the other
murders. Not a doubt about
the jury's verdict that I should be dying:
"Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt".'

'Some last words?' - The man inflamed him;
Johnny, while the clock was ticking,
put a curse on those who framed him.
'Anything besides this?' - 'Yes,
I thank my friends and family for sticking
with me. The rest of the world can kiss my ass!'

When they started to deliver
the injection, he turned stiller,
couldn't scream nor breathe nor shiver
till the toxin's work was done,
twelve years before they captured Bryson's killer
who also claimed he'd raped and killed a nun.

After Johnny's death, the callous
Joe approached another churning
prisoner. The men at Ellis
liked to mix, but none of them
was talking to the man accused of burning
his children: Cameron Todd Willingham.

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