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The Poets

March 03, 2014

Jack the Ripper




Jack the Ripper

I'm he whose face is ever hid,
That unseen silhouette in shades-
Aloof, yet ever here amid
The winded wheat with reaping blades.

My dwelling none shall ever know,
My goings none shall ever see-
Til I arrive, my face to show,
No soul shall ever know it's me.

Whitechapel is my threshing floor ...
The scythe and sickle- ah, the tools.
The grain? - the harlot and the whore.
The yield? - a city full of fools. 

jwm

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