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.
John May
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jack-the-ripper-4/
