Among the meanest streets of London
as they wind behind the square,
in streets where sun has never lighted
and darkness fights to hide the sights
enlightenment shuns. There in the slum
when lives have come undone,
where the lost and best forgotten,
desperate and misbegotten
in anonymous safety huddle
as they struggle for survival,
respecting neither friend not rival,
where sweet fortune abandons
people who it once has smiled on.
Where lords and nobles revel
in the gutter with the low born
Romeish shop girl, rubbing shoulders
with the jade who whores
for bread and butter, costermongers
shout their banter, fortune tellers,
flower sellers, hucksters, pimps
and haberdashers, screaming, yelling,
buying, selling, dealing, trading,
all life is here, all revealing
human nature at its basest.
Here yellow smog masks the squalour,
creeps through streets,
between the houses, shrouding, choking,
amongst the brothels and thieves kitchens.

Mysteries of strange religions
are whispered of where quacks and fakirs,
abortionists and undertakes
do brisk business with the curious
profane and sacrilegious.
And people in mansions and palaces
behind their elegant facades
know nothing of this secret part
this beating heart of their city.

In a place lonely and silent,
a basement or perhaps a garret,
behind, dirty windows screened with dimity
in paranoid anonymity,
hatching schemes of retribution
meticulously planning, avidly scanning
twisted scriptures and the rituals
of arcane Hermetic grimoires
to the thirty – third degree,
planning to secure some absolution
for the sins of civilisation,
solitary, shunning company
forever seeking secrecy
mind focused on one point,
one glowing flame
dwelt Jack.

While his murderous hatred festered
and his hatred never rested
all around, despised, detested
people who profaned the purity
of the immaculate light.
Patiently the madman waited,
watching unsuspecting victims,
lurking as he contemplated
how to play his game.

Tawdry ladies of the night,
of gamahouche and tuppeny upright,
louche and blowsy, brassy, frowsy,
parodying purer beauty
were in Jack's sight
as the three jues goading whispers
condemned sinful sisters
to the avenger's awful justice.

Dress and manners of a Gent.
concealed his malign intent
as he enticed them,sliced them,
ritually sacrificed them.
Heart cut out, intestine draped over shoulder.
Arranged with almost loving care
and by one corpse a message there.
The Jues will not be blamed for nothing.

Investigations not concluded
pursuit eluded, justice confounded
though Jack was hounded by the law.
Hermetic codes did misdirect them,
did a brotherhood protect him,
in the centre, on the square?
Suddenly the nightmare ended,
Jack just blended into London’s
underworld and the yellow fog
descended. None shall know
how the mystery ended.

In the case of Jack the Ripper and The Whitechapel Murders one of the most fascinating, though not necessarily most reliable theories is that the murderer was carrying out a plan organised by Freemasons to protect a member of the Royal Family, Prince Edward, Duke of Clarence, who it was rumoured had fallen in love with an illiterate shopgirl, conceived a child with her and secretly married her.

The main source of thus rumour was a message left scrawled in chalk on the pavement next to one of the mutilated victims. It read "The three Jues (or Juwes) are men who will not be blamed for nothing." The words were obliterated on the orders of the chief of Police, a prominent mason. He gave as his reason a reluctance to see innocent Jews blamed for the murders but other clues left deliberately by The Ripper pointed to a masonic link and it did not take Victorian conspiracy theorists long to work out that he three Jues mentioned might be the thugs hired to kill Hiram Abiff, the founder of the ancient masonic tradition. These three all had names beginning with the letter Ju it was said.