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In the dark, dank air
Of East End town,
Stands a pub, The Ten Bells,
Commercial Street down.
A small bar inside, mighty wood,
And mightily scarred,
Tipples a man, broad shoulders, strong arms,
Donning a cape,
N'er a single thread is marred.
Absinthe, yes, each sip so fine,
That when his bloody knife dips in,
The grizzly mix,
It laps as exotic wine.
"Is this seat taken?"
Asks a fair and shapely lass,
Her youthful air, her dewy skin,
Needs no rouged-up mask.
"Not seen your likes before,"
Mary coquettishly says,
"The East End for me, dear lass,
Is but a lark, a mere inclimate phase."
"Got your 4p for the night's dos, kindly man?"
"I'll not be long enough this eve to be no layin' down Dan."
"If you've got 4p more, me and my warm bed are surely free."
"Oh, lass, nothing as sweet as you could happen to thee."
"Come rest your weary head, dear gent. It's gettin' on 2 and I'm fiercely behind on my rent."
The cloaked man smiles, drains his dregs, and follows the lass down Dorset way,
To Miners Row, an inky alley fare,
His fate married to hers,
Her quick life by his hand soon ebbed away.
A kiss, a cuddle,
It starts so sublime,
A steely knife, its glint so nice,
It doth slice and filet the lass,
Jagged line by jagged line.
T'is all but a gasp and a hoarsy cry, say "Murder!"
But in the East End murder spills out
An everlasting jigger.
The fire stoked all night and burns white hot,
No bloody trouble, a bloody mess,
Yet no fleshy juggernaut.
Come four bell tolls,
Truman clock way,
"The task is done,"
Whispers Jack the Lad,
"Mary's my swan song.
My carnal need had bled away."
As the flames flicker,
And the coals spark,
What's left of Mary lies there,
Blood soaked, bed dripping,
A heartless sweetheart.
It's well you stay clear, kind Sir, Ma'am,
The East End way,
For the terror Whitechapel bound,
May have no end,
To this very day.
~~~
Sleep well, my fellow Ripperites!
B.J. Thompson
Of East End town,
Stands a pub, The Ten Bells,
Commercial Street down.
A small bar inside, mighty wood,
And mightily scarred,
Tipples a man, broad shoulders, strong arms,
Donning a cape,
N'er a single thread is marred.
Absinthe, yes, each sip so fine,
That when his bloody knife dips in,
The grizzly mix,
It laps as exotic wine.
"Is this seat taken?"
Asks a fair and shapely lass,
Her youthful air, her dewy skin,
Needs no rouged-up mask.
"Not seen your likes before,"
Mary coquettishly says,
"The East End for me, dear lass,
Is but a lark, a mere inclimate phase."
"Got your 4p for the night's dos, kindly man?"
"I'll not be long enough this eve to be no layin' down Dan."
"If you've got 4p more, me and my warm bed are surely free."
"Oh, lass, nothing as sweet as you could happen to thee."
"Come rest your weary head, dear gent. It's gettin' on 2 and I'm fiercely behind on my rent."
The cloaked man smiles, drains his dregs, and follows the lass down Dorset way,
To Miners Row, an inky alley fare,
His fate married to hers,
Her quick life by his hand soon ebbed away.
A kiss, a cuddle,
It starts so sublime,
A steely knife, its glint so nice,
It doth slice and filet the lass,
Jagged line by jagged line.
T'is all but a gasp and a hoarsy cry, say "Murder!"
But in the East End murder spills out
An everlasting jigger.
The fire stoked all night and burns white hot,
No bloody trouble, a bloody mess,
Yet no fleshy juggernaut.
Come four bell tolls,
Truman clock way,
"The task is done,"
Whispers Jack the Lad,
"Mary's my swan song.
My carnal need had bled away."
As the flames flicker,
And the coals spark,
What's left of Mary lies there,
Blood soaked, bed dripping,
A heartless sweetheart.
It's well you stay clear, kind Sir, Ma'am,
The East End way,
For the terror Whitechapel bound,
May have no end,
To this very day.
~~~
Sleep well, my fellow Ripperites!
B.J. Thompson
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