Jack
Deep in London's back street lanes,
Jack's spirit angered still remains,
In shadows as he lies in wait, for the prostitute, his object of hate,
He sharpens scalpels, surgeon's blades, precision tools, to slice and mame,
His intention to acquire his thrill,
through blood, with ritualistic Kills.
He lies in wait his victim nears, feeding off her inner fears,
Beneath his cape he draws his knife, in preparation to take this life,
Blade to blade the knife so sharp,
Clean incisions cut out her heart,
Not content he cuts in more, her organs laid beside her on the floor,
Ripped and torn her body ravaged, by this animal depraved and savage.
He dips his fingers in her blood, and turns to face the wall,
He writes a message shocking red, a warning to them all,
"Whilst you walk these streets and sell yourself, your soul is turning
black, come to me for I await, Jack has just come back"
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