Poetry of Fox

Jack . . .

Why fear the darkness of the night
Is it not better when hid from the light
The shadow is the life
To he who holds the knife
On a quest to set a wrong to right

He knows it's one of the ladies where
For a price will lie with a man bare
So down to White Chapel
He prowls with his scalpel
Because he knows he will find her there

So night after night for many weeks
For the right one he searches and seeks
Until he finds his goal
And stills her wicked soul
Through the alleys and back streets he sneaks

How many have approached him for fun
How many more until he is done
With gutters stained blood red
Disemboweled until dead
All whores must pay the price of the one

He steps away from his work and sighs
Taking note of the death in her eyes
Of surgery gone well
One more slut sent to hell
As she exhales her last and she dies

So he dons his cloak and flees the crime
One more murder right in London prime
The police have no clue
And no one ever knew
Jack's real name, soon a legend of time

Vlad the Impaler (aka Fox)