Whitechapel District 1888.

He came out of the foggy night

With a vengeance,

His knife gleaming

Beneath the yellow gaslight.

Wearing a top hat and long cloak

He waited patiently in the alleyway

For the whore to pass by

Ah, there she is alone and tottering

From  cheap drink.

His beady grey eyes glared at her

The whore that had given him

The incurable disease

He knew he was rotting

And he vowed to take out as many whores

As possible before he died

She was drawing nearer and nearer

Her shoes clicking on the wet

Cobblestone sidewalk

He took in a deep breath as

His gloved hand tightened

On knife’s handle

As she came abreast

He reached out and grabbed

Her by the throat and pulled her into

The dark recesses of the alleyway

As her feet kicked the empty air

She tried to scream but it was too late

With a deft stroke he slit her throat.

She fell on the wet filthy ground

Her warm blood splashing around 

As he began to mutilate her as he did the

Other three – gutting them expertly

From pubis to throat in frenzied madness

The foul deed done, his breath now irregular

From his unholy  exertions,

He slipped the bloodied knife into his bag

Looked to and fro then quickly

He disappeared into the pre dawn night