A century ago, there lived a man so viscous that the streets still bears his name.
He was the name for terror and fear,
Profoundly known as Jack the Ripper.
A character, so brutal and severe.
Stalking the streets of Whitechapel late at night.
Hunting down the fallen women at sight.
Never was he ever caught,
Cause no one knew what he sought.
Perhaps now's the time to hunt him down.
With new evidence at hand, it's time to get things going.
A hunter, a surgeon, or a religious act of purification.
What was he doing?
He stalked his victims like a hunter.
Cutting his victims like a specialized surgeon.
He was in a conflicted state of mind,
Locking his conscience in a dungeon.
Maybe for him, these victims didn't deserve to live.
Or that he was doing God's work.
Maybe he thought he was doing a favour to society.
Which made him think he was doing the right work.
He knew what he was doing,
For he was disciplined and organised.
He was able to hide and blend in,
For he was calculative and well defined.
YOU ARE READING
Dont mind the Lyrics
PoetryThis is a book entitled for all my poems to be found in a single point in time.
