Through these murky streets of precious stone the smog is glutinous like the Devil's throne.
The squeals in the dead of night, are boisterous, longing, and such an unpleasant delight.
Lock your doors. Nail up your windows. Place a fire in your chimneys. Bare all arms!
Kill the beasts who have come from Hell. We'll inform you with the clatter of the bells.
The constables' will guard their station. And they have been told to shoot in exhilaration.
No whores on the streets in these nights please. The being will preoccupy and will tease.
He's murdered four whom where alive, don't inquire him to make you dirge number five.
Jack The Ripper! Jack The Ripper! Jack The Ripper! The screams turn into a whisper.
A scream! A splash! We ran with a dash. Constable John stood there! Large and square!
I killed Jack The Damn Ripper! We come across toward a deep muddle of watery riffles.
We slumber in calm for a while 'till we heard the strident, and bawl 'Jack's gonna kill!'
In the mucky depths is the lifeless body of Freda Jenkins. We were all put in Jack's thinking.
She floats in the water, hair like weeds, and her body do the fish feed. All for Jack's greed.
