The Ballad of the Hangman
a ballad by Rebecca Grabman, based on historical events

Come hear a story of old Jack Ketch,
The hangman known of yore:
He lived a while, and then he died,
And now he lives no more.

Now Jackie boy was quite the brute,
Or else he simply failed,
At sev’ring heads of those condemned:
They screamed and winced and flailed.

His job was simple, truth be told –
Just swing the hangman’s axe.
And yet somehow he’d fail to kill
(It took him several whacks).

He never cut their necks quite clean.
In anger he would cry,
“If they’d just go like they’re supposed –
Just hurry up and die…!”

‘Twas mid July and summer sun
Beat down like Hell’s own fire
And at the block there stood a man –
A sneak, a cheat, a liar.

He’d been accused of this or that
And death was his reward –
He’d pay a call to ole Jack Ketch,
And then, on to the Lord.

He was a Duke, of royal blood
(Which soon would stain the ground)
And told ole Jackie, if he pleased,
To kill him right and sound.

He gave our man a tidy sum,
With hopes ‘twould help his aim,
But when time came to do the deed,
Jack bungled just the same.

Oh, Jackie boy! He fucked it up –
He had to use a knife.
It took him half a dozen strokes
To finish off that life.

Now killing ain’t a tricky task,
And our man was replaced –
By a mere butcher, of all men! –
And Jack was left shamefaced.

They threw him in the county jail
And there he thought he’d rot.
But Butcher stole a lawman’s coat:
Jack got another shot.

(The Butcher, on the other hand,
He took one giant leap
Straight off the platform at Tyburn
Into eternal sleep.)

Thus, old Jack was reinstated,
And to his great delight,
Continued practice with his axe –
But never got it right.

He died in Sixteen Eighty Six
Though not by axe’s blade:
He went all quiet in his sleep,
And in the ground was laid.

So all in all, a happy tale:
Things all worked out okay.
Jack lived his life as best he could
And then he went away.

His story has become a myth,
A fable most Aesop-y:
His life with all the ups and downs
Was certainly, well, “choppy”.

This poem appeared in issue four of Bennington College's literary magazine, The Interrobang.