Born and raised a proper,
Tux and tails with a stiff white collar
Standing proud, tall and thin,
But it seems like, life just bugged him
Never sitting still for long,
Always on the move, from the gathering throngs
Down one dark road, then the alley
Chasing the shadows, growing his tally
Their faces aghast, with eyes wide,
In silent screams, they bled and died
Stalking the streets of Whitechapel,
With his very own leather apron
With a surgeons skill and the heart of a killer,
The story has now, become quite a thriller
These working girls each fell,
Disemboweled by the man from hell
Having gone through the canonical five,
He's off to the next, to end her life
Another one gone, who's next?
As he strolled the streets of Whitechapel's East End
On a stroll down Osborn Street,
He found his next, and swept her off her feet
Hello my dear, on a evening such as this,
Let us go inside, I should like a kiss
What's your name, was it Emma Smith?
My name? I cannot say, I plead the fifth
Such a pretty face, now that just won't do,
Here my dear, let me help you
Well, now that you've asked again,
Let us play a little game
Dear lady, can you guess my name?
Good God, you're Jack the Ripper!
Correct my dear and you just lost the game...
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Drops by Eric Paeplow )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley