The Physician

At the end of a dry, harsh August, as Autumn slowly descends upon Whitechapel, I begin my vicious practice. From Buck’s Row to Hanbury Street, I make each house call brief. My methods most precise—each cut, so deep, So effectively fatal, soft and discrete. A secondary incision— Across my new friend’s abdomen— Completes my process. Showcases the subtlety of my craft. In Dutfield’s Yard, with a sharpened stroke, I slice open her tender throat. In Mitre Square in public view The next victim shall follow suit. At Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street, I complete my grotesque exhibition. With this sequence of dissections, I have ushered in the twentieth century. My ritual of dominance, with my altar— The architecture of London herself.