Aflevering Moordlied 05 - Bonnie Parker & Suicide Sal

Het gedicht The Story of Suicide Sal van Bonnie Parker - de grote liefde van Clyde Barrow - leest als een pulpverhaal uit de jaren ’30: ruig, fatalistisch en doorspekt met de cynische wijsheid van iemand die weet dat het criminele leven geen happy endings kent. Maar het roept ook vragen op: Is Suicide Sal een fictief personage of Bonnie’s alter ego? Probeerde Bonnie hiermee haar eigen situatie te verwerken, terwijl ze zich steeds dieper in een leven van misdaad begaf? Of was het een waarschuwing – misschien wel aan zichzelf – over hoe het allemaal zou eindigen?Patrick Bernauw schreef het script en vertelt het verhaal. De tekst van het moordlied werd geschreven door Bonnie Parker, de muziek is van Suno.Abonneer je nu op WARE MISDAAD zodat je zeker geen aflevering hoeft te missen. Misschien vind je ook de tijd om onze podcast een mooi boeketje sterren toe te kennen op je favoriete platform, of er een review over te schrijven? Wil je ons een onmisbaar financieel steuntje in de rug geven? Dan kun je lid worden van onze SUPPORTERS CLUB... Voor een kleine maandelijkse bijdrage krijg je toegang tot allerlei lekkers. Volg de link: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/ware-misdaad--5433901/supportTHE STORY OF SUICIDE SAL (Bonnie Parker)We each of us have a good "alibi"For being down here in the "joint"But few of them really are justifiedIf you get right down to the point.You've heard of a woman's gloryBeing spent on a "downright cur"Still you can't always judge the storyAs true, being told by her.As long as I've stayed on this "island"And heard "confidence tales" from each "gal"Only one seemed interesting and truthful-The story of "Suicide Sal".Now "Sal" was a gal of rare beauty,Though her features were coarse and tough;She never once faltered from dutyTo play on the "up and up"."Sal" told me this tale on the eveningBefore she was turned out "free"And I'll do my best to relate itJust as she told it to me:I was born on a ranch in Wyoming;Not treated like Helen of Troy,I was taught that "rods were rulers"And "ranked" as a greasy cowboy.Then I left my old home for the cityTo play in its mad dizzy whirl,Not knowing how little of pityIt holds for a country girl.There I fell for "the line" of a "henchman"A "professional killer" from "Chi"I couldn't help loving him madly,For him even I would die.One year we were desperately happyOur "ill gotten gains" we spent free,I was taught the ways of the "underworld"Jack was just like a "god" to me.I got on the "F.B.A." payrollTo get the "inside lay" of the "job"The bank was "turning big money"!It looked like a "cinch for the mob".Eighty grand without even a "rumble"-Jack was last with the "loot" in the door,When the "teller" dead-aimed a revolverFrom where they forced him to lie on the floor.I knew I had only a moment-He would surely get Jack as he ran,So I "staged" a "big fade out" beside himAnd knocked the forty-five out of his hand.They "rapped me down big" at the station,And informed me that I'd get the blameFor the "dramatic stunt" pulled on the "teller"Looked to them, too much like a "game".The "police" called it a "frame-up"Said it was an "inside job"But I steadily denied any knowledgeOr dealings with "underworld mobs".The "gang" hired a couple of lawyers,The best "fixers" in any mans town,But it takes more than lawyers and moneyWhen Uncle Sam starts "shaking you down".I was charged as a "scion of gangland"And tried for my wages of sin,The "dirty dozen" found me guilty-From five to fifty years in the pen.I took the "rap" like good people,And never one "squawk" did I makeJack "dropped himself" on the promiseThat we make a "sensational break".Well, to shorten a sad lengthy story,Five years have gone over my headWithout even so much as a letter-At first I thought he was dead.But not long ago I discovered;From a gal in the joint named Lyle,That Jack and his "moll" had "got over"And were living in true "gangster style".If he had returned to me sometime,Though he hadn't a cent to giveI'd forget all the hell that he's caused me,And love him as long as I lived.But there's no chance of his ever coming,For he and his moll have no fearsBut that I will die in this prison,Or "flatten" this fifty years.Tomorrow I'll be on the "outside"And I'll "drop myself" on it today,I'll "bump 'em if they give me the "hotsquat"On this island out here in the bay…The iron doors swung wide next morningFor a gruesome woman of waste,Who at last had a chance to "fix it"Murder showed in her cynical face.Not long ago I read in the paperThat a gal on the East Side got "hot"And when the smoke finally retreated,Two of gangdom were found "on the spot".It related the colorful storyOf a "jilted gangster gal"Two days later, a "sub-gun" endedThe story of "Suicide Sal".