Jack the Ripper

Plain clothes, painted wings
claiming piety
whilst I take nightly
the last breath from vermillion lips.

A reprise to the cry;
the 'shick' of my knife
taking life, the Devil's device
smothered by a leather apron.

Midnight shines a sickly light
as they try to catch this blight,
on this Mortal Coil,
on Whitechapel soil.

...catch me if you can.

RIPPER MAN