am a lion hunting in tall grass.
The fog is dense, but I still find my way.
I rid the streets of filth and lower class.
I buy them like objects but will not pay.
My patience and virtue are running low
and under a street lamp she stands alone
as if it were a spotlight for the show
and it begins; my stage is marbled stone.
A grim pre-death autopsy is performed .
Precision of a surgeon-- this is bliss!
The blood sprays my pale face and art is formed
Before I'm done my knife needs one last kiss.
Victorian London is in dismay,
and I'm still free, to hunt another day.
Jack the Ripper
Share This Poem