Whitechapel
Blood on the streets, stench in the air
1888, Butcher's Row, despair
Slaughterhouses spill the shuffle
The pubs hustle to some lamplight scuffle
Bobby whistles scream but the Ripper is no where
East end fog licks a dirty gem
Velvet bonnet and tattered hem
I'll do such things, such crafty things
Inside out and a few pence spread
I'll cut the sin right out of them
It may be 'neath a harlot's moon
But I'm going to paint it red
They will beg my blade and wish they were dead
A night's lodging, bread square and sleep
- Be the highest hope, if four pence will keep
Wipe a tear, smile and show some skirt
There's your lady, say how no one gets hurt
Raise the flounce, collect, sow and so soon shall you reap
'Jack' is the name on frightened lips
Eluding, he's a caper, always slips
God save the Queen and us as well
London mist has become his home from Hell
- Phantom with a lust to kill sure as more flesh rips
East end fog licks a dirty gem
Velvet bonnet and tattered hem
I'll do such things, such crafty things
Inside out and a few pence spread
I'll cut the sin right out of them
It may be 'neath a harlot's moon
But I'm going to paint it red
They will beg my blade and wish they were dead
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