As the night creeps in,
Smoke from London's hearths descend,
Swirling - dancing with the fog,
Haloing gaslights with a thickened haze,
Cloaking a flash of a six inch blade

Shadows become a blackened abyss
Frightened stragglers scurry to a place that's secure and bliss.
For a murderous madman has terrorized this den
Of prostitution and the criminally bent.

On the East End, where self-respect isn't known,
Lives poverty and predation in a marriage of woe.
Four pence for a bed in public housing
To be turned out if you're short a farthing.

Compassion isn't known on these cobblestone streets.
Christ Church is Whitechapel's only sanctuary;
An edifice that towers over a public house
Where denizens of the East End are known to carouse.

‘Tis a place a predator can come to prey
To exalt in bawdy hymnals with a drink.
Espying whores for a sacrificial blade.
At The Ten Bells there are plenty to slay.

A gal must work in these desperate times.
A stiff drink will help her fortify
To face the darkness into the phantom's abode.
A peril everyone on the East End knows.