We are who we are, aren’t we, Jack?

We are who we are, and that is the naked truth,

The children of our parents, the old and the youth,

My father’s angrily grin, I see inside the mirror,

The madness of my mother’s eyes, even nearer,

I speak to them through this glass of reflection,

In manners and tics, a heritance of complexion,

Sometimes I’m proud, sometimes I’m ashamed,

Who’s responsible, and who to be blamed?

Still I claim their name, a gory tale of standing tall,

Of walking straight, to remember, and of course to recall,

That we are who we are, the putrefying, the remainder of the windfall.

So I fear and I tremble, shiver before I go mental,

They say I must hurry and by no means be gentle,

The night is my cloak, my dagger, my only protection,

I cut and I slice, it’s the price of my habit’s perfection,

The blood in the black of the night is the color I like,

The sounds of the cries, the screams when I strike,

It’s the dance of death, a whirlpool of red, a ripper’s ballet,

It’s a rave that I lead, that I need, the reason I slay.

We are who we are, so I wouldn’t change or alter a thing,

Not for a life full of flatness, not for a beautiful wife or a dull human being,

I’m the Ripper and my name is Jack, the one and only, the slayer’s King.

© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere

20/02/2016