I am a little teapot.
Made of smooth china
Painted with dainty flowers
Pouring tea to respectable ladies
Tittering laughter
Clinking china cups
Clad in stiff stain gowns
The creamiest ivory gloves
Strings of pearls that appear to choke
Glossy beads concealing a tender neck
Pale and delicate

A knife casts a ghostly silver glow
Slick with crimson thrill
Poised for another attack.
The moonlight catching
A whisper of gleaming jewels
From the chains that hang
Around his flabby neck
Hundreds of necklaces glitter

Each from an unfortunate woman to cross his path
Cloaked in darkness
The shadows are his best friend
On filthy rubbish strewn streets
The foulest odors rise from the gutters
Where children beg
Selling their souls for petty cents
He is waiting

In the tearoom
Gossip behind fluttering fans
The taste of scones is sweet
On their sharp tongues
Watching ladies sip tea
Adding modest amounts of milk and sugar
Stirring without a care
He contemplates which one will be next?
I am a little teapot
Seeing but not speaking.