Dear Boss,

Stalking dim lit cobblestone streets,
alone in the night hunting for meat.
What is on the mind of all who know,
who is Jack that kills them slow?
Silence I am, suffering and fright,
ripping open whores that own the night.
Ecstatic to lure with coin in hand,
much too easy was drunken Mary Ann.
Whitechapel's lanterns, a faint little glow,
decrepit old buildings all in a row.
Razor sharp to the tip of the blade.
Eyes go dark, as vitality does fade.
Buck's Row, fitting for her end.
To Hell, her essence will I send.
Crimson red blood flows from her throat.
Feeling proud, send a letter to gloat.
Am I a skilled butcher, doctor or priest?
I dare you to put a name to this beast.
Throughout the ages history will show.
The Yards incompetence quickly shall grow.
Yours Truly,
Jack the Ripper
P.S. Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk.