Widows he makes,
where husbands once were.
Shin bones he takes,
as corpses don’t stir.
An agent of death,
though once celebrated.
His arms and his hands,
iron cast and serrated.

Protruding with spikes,
of factory and mill.
Rusted with bloodshed,
and eager to kill.
Does he kill for fun,
to have his blades wetter.
Or does he stalk London,
hell bent on vendetta.

They die not in haist,
for his cuts start low.
They rarely can cry,
they allways die slow.
As well as one bone,
the shirt the man takes.
From bodies ripped dry,
frow his cuts and rakes.

Is he a demon,
a butcher hell sent.
Here with no more,
then murderous intent.
Or was he once he,
the man who once sank.
So betrayed by his kin,
he’s forsaken his rank.

Could this be true,
war hero turned harf.
Devil stalks us,
consumed in his wrath.
And if this is so,
how long was he known.
As simply a man,
who dealt in rag and bone.

Credit To: cockney pasta
Credit Link: www.youtube/Cockneypasta

Add this crappypasta to your list of favorites!