Terror From Within
I wait, for you, but you, don’t see.
Buck’s Row, you walk around.
Your job, you do, does disgust me.
You do, not make, a sound.
It’s you, I greet, my “name” is Jack.
As you, unbutton me.
With my, quick knack, my swift, attack.
Your blood, pours over thee.
My knife, cuts deep, a rip I make.
With one, stroke of, my blade.
They can’t, catch me, their souls, I take.
For the tricks, that you’ve played.
They call, me names, the mourning, press.
They do, not have, a clue.
Your head, your arms, make such, a mess.
As I, do blood, let you.
Ten plus one, equals, eleven.
They all, were prostitutes.
All eleven, not sent, to heaven.
Scotland Yard’s, not, astute.