The Jack.
The Jack.
A fading silhouette,
A wraith left in the streets.
Dimly lit contours exposed to gushing red.
Who? Maybe a whore? No, must be a young coquette.
Don’t judge, there is more than the eye meets,
He can see behind the Night’s cold lead.
Dead of night. Goldilocks led astray.
Legs spreading after every sunset, but tonight blood was shed –
Oozing from the wounds of her Lowliness – born to sin and condemned to Death –
Born in secret and left to secretly decay.
The noble wary eyes shall see her again. Decomposed. Gone. Vanished to red,
For in his holy mission the Jack ridded her of her last blood drenched breath.
Morning in gloom and a hole in the ground
Under a Jane Doe tombstone.
Jaded stone whispers – Guilt! – Forevermore.
Worthless can not speak – only moan from the Earth, an inaudible sound
To the holy people above, basking in chastity alone.
They did not mourn. The Jack has indeed killed, but only a whore.
Blood-stained and tired, eyes hazed and weary,
The Jack observes his hands’ deed.
In a foggy London night he sees clearly
God’s mistakes. His rotten seed.
Not the whores, but those up above,
Who let him kill, kill, kill – Forevermore.
A fading silhouette,
A wraith left in the streets.
Dimly lit contours exposed to gushing red.
Who? Maybe a whore? No, must be a young coquette.
Don’t judge, there is more than the eye meets,
He can see behind the Night’s cold lead.
Dead of night. Goldilocks led astray.
Legs spreading after every sunset, but tonight blood was shed –
Oozing from the wounds of her Lowliness – born to sin and condemned to Death –
Born in secret and left to secretly decay.
The noble wary eyes shall see her again. Decomposed. Gone. Vanished to red,
For in his holy mission the Jack ridded her of her last blood drenched breath.
Morning in gloom and a hole in the ground
Under a Jane Doe tombstone.
Jaded stone whispers – Guilt! – Forevermore.
Worthless can not speak – only moan from the Earth, an inaudible sound
To the holy people above, basking in chastity alone.
They did not mourn. The Jack has indeed killed, but only a whore.
Blood-stained and tired, eyes hazed and weary,
The Jack observes his hands’ deed.
In a foggy London night he sees clearly
God’s mistakes. His rotten seed.
Not the whores, but those up above,
Who let him kill, kill, kill – Forevermore.