(Bonus Content) The Song of Bloody Bill Rhys

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See also the audience discussion on the recent essay and the entry Gallows Steve and Ripper Kringle. Rhys is pronounced ‘rice’, and Fiennes ‘fine’.

This is the story of Bloody Bill Rhys,
A sick sort of man who just wouldn’t think twice
Of cutting your head off
And feeding it to
Your mother and brothers in the form of a stew.

He wasn’t a good man, not Bloody Bill Rhys,
But the things that fell out of his life, they were nice.
If he’d been in a town
The survivors knew bliss—
‘Twas the mark of his passage! And it was like this:

There were rainbows and kittens and great chocolate muffins,
There just wasn’t no one who didn’t have nuffin’,
In every home there was marital bliss!
And the air it would sparkle when two lovers kissed.

There was wealth and no shame and the bookstores were full
And the people worked hard and no children were dull
For all he was a fuckhead he had wonderful shoes—
In each of his footprints a new flower grew.

This is the story of Bloody Bill Rhys,
He didn’t kill once, it was lots more than twice,
At torture an expert,
At theft a guru—
And a deliberate vector for new kinds of flu!

A sadist, a killer, a filthy old bugger,
And no one would doubt he was truly meshugga
But nobody cared
Because when he left town—
The survivors were better ’cause he’d been around.

Were you were someone he hurt? Well, then,
That was a shame;
But that some people suffer
Is the price of the game.

This is the story of Bloody Bill Rhys,
It wasn’t on purpose. He wasn’t that nice.
His good works were burdens
Inflicted by fate—
His nature was rotten but his deeds turned out great.

When it came to protection,
The law looked away.
They knew they should seize him
But what can I say?

Were you someone he hurt? Then, well,
That was a shame;
But that some people suffer
Is the price of the game.

For twelve years of horrors
The price of the game.

This is the story of Bloody Bill Rhys
And a lawman named Fiennes just promoted from Vice,
He tracked down Bill Rhys
At the scene of a crime—
And “You’re under arrest,” said Officer Fiennes.

No rainbows, no kittens, no great chocolate muffins,
Until Bill moves on karma don’t give you nuffin’,
And when Bill resisted
Rick Fiennes shot him dead—
Once in the chest and three shots in the head.

No hearts and no flowers, no magical kiss,
The people of Fiennes’ town, they could have had bliss,
But he ended it all with the ring of his gun—
Filed a report, and Bill Rhys was done.

He was a sadist, a killer, a filthy old bugger,
And no one would doubt he was truly meshugga
But nobody cared
Because when he left town—
The survivors were better ’cause he’d been around.

There was wealth and no shame and the bookstores were full
And the people worked hard and no children were dull
And for all he was a fuckhead he had wonderful shoes—
In each of his footprints a new flower grew.

At his trial Fiennes said he was sad and ashamed
Of the outcome he’d brought
But he said, all the same,
“In the face of such men a cop
Does what he must—it’s
Cause outcomes are outcomes
And justice is justice.”

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Categories: Hitherby, Legends, On Morality, Personal Favorites