She shuffled on through choking smog,
Stopping thrice to hack and cough phlegm,
London’s night oozed fetid and rank,
She craved for her cot after walking the streets.
Clutching her earnings, tight to her breast,
Her freezing, slight frame shivered with cold.
“The stench of rot and smoke burns her nose,
Two ruffians stop her, “what have we got?”
A tall man steps between them, lessening her fear;
“Allow me Madam, I am John,” he said.
The ruffians he menaced, “Footpads, depart,
”His brandished cane gave cause to flee.
“Excuse me, madam, for abrupt introduction;
Your peril gave cause for great haste,
Honour requires that I escort you back home,
”With a release of held breath, she gave consent.
The filth strewn about made her cough once again,
Obliged by gallantry, he offers a ‘kerchief,
She coyly asked his name, hoping he might be game,
Dare she try one last trick and then supper.
Finally, home, she unlocked her door,
Turning her back, she dared one last word:
“Pray tell” she coquettes, daring one more tryst,
“Well, here in Whitechapel, the police call me Jack!”
—A dark knife hums from a sheath—
