Comments about Jack Growden
When the clocks did chime for the eleventh hour
Well after the Sun had completed its fall,
The darkest of Whitechapel's darkest,
Staggered from an alley, in a hunched-over crawl.
With nary a moon to behold, light was scarce,
And t'was a lamppost that brought him into view.
Such a haggard mess he was indeed,
His teeth a bare yellow few.
A matted mane sat upon his face,