Big Ben chimes again
With Bazball zen
One of those men
From special stock
Shepherd of the flock
Hewn from strewn Volcanic rock
From New Zealand's Southern Isle
But only there for a wee while
Mighty flame haired flair laird
Without doubt more about Blighty's North East
They forged this bellicose beast
Ripsnorting sporting cavorting squire
Glutton & gourmand gorged feast
Test town crier
Puffed buffed chest
Inspire..burning
Proper copper topper
Churning fire..
Endless zest..desire
No dull lull
No bore draw
Simple...aspire
To score more!
It's not arcane
Stokes campaign & reign
Train like you're insane
Always entertain!
Remember us flounder
In the gutter
Trounced...17 on the bounce
Could we have found
Pound for pounder
Better all rounder
Nutter...go getter
Sounder founder
Run rate record setter
Of the evolution
And revolution
Of Test cricket
Toe to toe
Blow by blow
Heave ho
Give us a ticket
In the Baz ball or
Ben buzz grotto
Gung Ho motto
You will never know
Till you give it a go!
Is it nature or nurture
This Larry wants to know
As a genetic researcher
His life has taken a blow
Could he be related
To the beast of Whitechapel
Is his life ill-fated
Something which he must grapple
His ghostly grandparents say it’s true
As a researcher what can Larry do
The family gene he must eliminate
Is it genes or love or hate
Why did Jack do what he did
Was it desire or for a quid
Find out on the seventh of November
If he’s related to Jack, who liked to dismember
I hope you like it, cos it’s a gripper
Things you didn’t know in Rise of the Ripper.
You’ve heard of Brady and Hindley
And I'm sure Poll Pot too
You've heard of Fred and Rose West
and the evil that they do
Jack the Ripper had a son
Did he follow in his steps?
Find out about the boy
And learn what he did best
But this time there’s a change
From Jack, the carnage carried on
William and Emily are their names
And they played their evil as one
Even after their passing
To the world beyond this
They came back and tormented
Giving their children no wedded bliss.
Not just in Victorian times
Right up to Elizabethan
The legacy that Jack left
Still cannot be beaten.
Find out in my new book
A romantic, psychological gripper
You already know the title
The Rise of the Ripper
Through the streets of Whitechapel
A monster roamed them all
He left behind a history
Many to enthral
But who knew the romance
The lover behind this affray
He may wield a knife but in fact
Was Jack gay?
A romantic, emasculated by a wife
A sexual experience
Affected him for life
Read about the romance
The lover, murderer too
It's all in my new book
A paranormal tale for you
If you want a good yarn
My book is just a gripper
It's out in November and it’s called Rise of the Ripper
Jack the Ripper has not mended his ways
Continuing search for unwary prey
This time around, his weapon is poison
Extinguishing lives of poor, his mission
‘The weak must perish’, Jack the Ripper says
Homeless vagrants at food bank, to God pray
Oblivious that blue skies have turned grey
Their food today, prepared by a demon
Jack the Ripper
Panic sets in as these weary souls sway
Each falls to the ground and there they do stay
Mass murder most foul, against God, treason
Yet the man who did it, not in prison
Criminal feels what he does is okay
Jack the Ripper
30-July-2021
Panic at the food bank poetry contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Although intoxicated within ethereal madness;
bound within the chains of this soulless prison.
I'm desperately in love with this Gothic sadness;
whilst staring into a fog of disheartened reason.
Walking and stalking through dark rancid streets;
stopping for pints, now the pain's finally receding.
Through smoke and crowds; reverent and discreet.
A bottle to the abyss, now heartless and bleeding.
Watch the frightened view my new lifeless prize;
found there in the dark of a White Chapel lane.
A gutter splashed in blood; wasted faceless lives;
I feel not of blame, nor absolved of pious shame.
A grave awaits all that tempt this pattered wraith
from the streets of lust, to the arches of festoon
stealing their souls whilst courting a devilish faith
I'm in love with blood of all devoid of a moon.
Muffled be the moans through all incised dreams;
Inhale a swirling mind while exhaling into hell.
Humming in rhyme of timed whispered screams.
Clock chimes bye, so off go I, leaving now as well.
1/28/2021
Murder In The Tunnel Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Aaron Kosminski, you were not Jack the Ripper
as many would have thought.
You have not kept a dissecting knife under your coat
as Raskolnikov had kept the ax.
You were not addicted to opium.
You liked the verse, The Hound of Heaven
and that’s Finis Coronat Opus -
the violence did not seized your hand,
there was no sound of dripping blood.
Your eyes, motionless with horror,
were not fixed on crime.
You were just like Jozef Konrad,
and myself, countryman emigrant,
only searching for peaceful life.
© A.R. Wielgus 2015
Shadow-clad, softly he treads,
a harbinger of death, and he's out hunting.
Stilettos in a leather belt, his weapons keen
and gleaming in the gaslight;
skulking in concealment there he waits.
Patience; his bloodlust can't be hurried.
He hears footsteps on the cobblestones,
a harlot leaves her trick and heads for home.
Silently he sneaks behind, disgusted
by her cheap perfume, and strikes.
He draws his blade across her torso
and a crimson torrent splatters.
Slick and precise, he harvests
what he needs from the hapless wench
and disappears back into darkness.
What sickness sparks his bestial lust,
and who then is to blame?
It matters not, the deed is done,
a debt that must be paid.
his is a soul that never will be saved.
The man in the alley is insane.
Syphilis eats at his brain.
All dressed in black,
he is ready to attack.
He stalks in the dark of night,
trying to stay out of sight.
A certain type he wants to find.
Whores,filthy whores screams in his mind !
A door opens at a nearby Inn.
Laughter for a moment and silence again.
The click-clack of heels on cobble stone,
as a woman of the night walks home.
A short scream then a moan,
as flesh is cut from bone.
He can hear the music of wind chimes,
as he stabs fourteen times.
He feels joy at her last breath.
Justification is somehow felt by her death.
Her suffering and demise brings delight,
as he disappears into the night.
Reaching to the sky in terror, another helpless victim of an
Inconceivable crime cries out for mercy. Blood curdles as screams
Pierce the night of London town. Who is the madman on the loose
Preying on the defenseless? The answer comes from hell…
Evil is lurking in every shadow. Do not close your eyes. The nightmare is .
Real, sinister, maniacal…No one is safe from Jack.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 10/16/13
For Russell Sivey's Everything Halloween Contest
.
Jack the
Ripper,
He walks &
talks,
Like an
ordinary
person.
Is he a
psycho
murderer,
Or a serial
killer,
Maybe a
famous actor,
Or a police
constable.
He is
bloodlust
terror,
One who
possess skill
of invisibility,
Now he is
Legendary,
The renowed
london
bridge,
The place of
unravelling
horror,
An unknown
destiny
reached,
Or a mystery
of the Ripper?
Over a
century past,
From the first
victim to the
last,
The
speculation
goes on.
That his work
not done.
But where
does this
puzzle lead,
Of the many
of his
unresting
dead,
Still not a
trace of him
been found,
Only the
memory of
Jack the
Ripper
stills
haunts....
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He cuts throats too, my dear friend Ramsay!
How can I sing myself to comfort,
Sing wonderfully, as my father brags,
With a cut throat!?
Perhaps the draining of my fluids shall be our killer's lullaby,
As he sleeps soundly with the soothing flow
Of my newly dead blood!
With an uncertain sigh,
I now stand alone, quaking!
Cruel thought imagining despairing fate
How could Ramsay have so much faith in a cowardly girl
When faith is simply what she lacks?
She is out to find an evil one unseen,
A twisted fiend that can be he that passes—or he!
Where shall she go from here?
Surely she cannot stand in this spot forever;
The rain has already chilled the coward to the bone,
When all she has on for warmth, the foolish child,
Is a thin old sweater?
But, ah, her bone is to be chilled once more,
And the weather, I'm afraid, will not be the cause. . .
-this is a dark soliloquy of a character in an unfinished play about Jack I wrote... maybe a couple years ago? I gottah put a date on these things! Haha-
Shadow-clad, softly he treads,
a harbinger of death, and he's out hunting.
Stilettos in a leather belt, his weapons keen
and gleaming in the gaslight;
skulking in concealment there he waits.
Patience; his bloodlust can't be hurried.
He hears footsteps on the cobblestones,
a harlot leaves her trick and heads for home.
Silently he sneaks behind, disgusted
by her cheap perfume, and strikes.
He draws his blade across her neck,
a crimson torrent splatters.
Slick and precise, he harvests
what he needs from the hapless wench
and disappears back into darkness.
What sickness sparks his bestial lust,
and who then is to blame?
It matters not, the deed is done,
a debt that must be paid.
his is a soul that never will be saved.
Jack the Ripper,
As a savage nipper,
Possibly slashed his toys,
And didn’t play with other boys.
Jack the Ripper
May have liked kipper,
But he ate a kidney one day -
Or, at least, so people often say.
For Andrea's Show me the Funny contest, Part Two
Originally for PD’s clerihew contest
he played a dirty hand
though he washed them
thoroughly each day.
Brilliant mind, hiding
a hollowness so dark
committing horrendous crime
on the lowly and the discharged,
those forced to feed on the grime
of sinners in bright attire.
No one would give a damn
to these despised street beggers
they would know his clever hands,
but their screams would not be heard,
their agony ending in shallow graves.
Ah those hands, how proud he was
so precise, unshaking, for he's a master
his work must be perfect, engraved
in the mind of his seekers
receiving his letters, taunting
leaving no clue to who he is
this ripper of life, never found...
but the night knows
the night has not forgotten
his screams are not heard
as knives swiftly rip at him,
his nightmare ends not.
CarolineCecile - 10.15.12
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