Something for Halloween

Late One Night in London Town
.
Little to do on the East Side, nigh on September's end,
Fortnight longer past, since he played his game with Miss Anne,
Left a fine piece of sculptor's work.
Now his muse tells him, that there's an urge which he needs tend,
Perhaps this eve, humorous dare: try catch him, if they can.
.
For him, the finest hobby, it's not really that he hates,
Doesn't understand it's madness, the voice he must obey,
To craft such pretty, red terror.
Fades back from the gaslight, in bedarkened alley he waits,
To have his ripping time in London, dull night just while away.
.
If only he could treat himself to some ladies of class,
Yet an artist can't complain; he must work with clay at hand.
In dank, dense fog hears light footsteps,
Anticipation thrills, alone approaches likely lass.
Smiles, assures his instruments have razor's edge they demand.
.
Closer, he stills his breath, doesn't want to spoil fine surprise,
Fingers purse, prepares to speak, knows that silver will entice,
Other glove: bone-handled, jagged steel.
Startled when he steps out, but after quick glance her hopes rise,
Professional judgement, he has coin, appears rather nice.
.
She protests it's cold, when he suggests they slip back a bit,
The two shillings he proffers, convince her to take a chance.
Nobody hears little lamb's cry,
Draws crimson grin 'cross stretched neck, rummages through his kit,
With scalpel, sets to carve: he seeks her beauty to enhance.
.
With loving hands, he rearranges, studies his bloody work,
Knows he could do better, ponders a while, picks up his sack,
Tonight, art's lust needs satisfied.
With steady stride, he then walks away, swallowed in the murk.
The next will come, he's trusted here, enough to call him Jack.
.