Poem: Breakfast With Saucy Jack

I got a standing breakfast date with Saucy Jack 

every morning at the same time, around dawn, 

as hell's bells cease to chime and I hear the 

bells of Old Bailey (that's an England thing 

for you Yanks). Jack never tries to pay me, 

and he never says thanks. The deal is, he 

tells me about life, things gritty and ugly 

and hard, things that made King George crack - 

and I don't tell Scotland Yard his name ain't really Jack.

I know what he's been doing all night, 

but I've never said I knew. But this morning, 

the severed kidney in his pocket killed my 

appetite (I wager it would yours too), so 

I ask my friend Jack, face to face, if only 

out of spite because my breakfast went to waste:
"Jack, how can you do what you do every night?"

"It's easy, boss," he says, "you pick the ones 

nobody wants - you can usually tell 'cos they 

got no teeth - pick a simpleminded one, a 

drunk one wobbly on her feet, and wear a 

dark coat so no one sees you run."

"I don't mean that, Jack. I mean, don't it bother 

you to kill?"
"Nah, mate; if they ain't human, it ain't murder. 

If I don't slice 'em, the Tories will."

"But don't you think it's a sin? Don't you think they matter?"
"It's a sin to starve in the East End, all the while Her Majesty gets fatter."

I don't bother to argue or tell him two wrongs 

don't make a right. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"Mate, you know I never sleep a wink."

He's late for a meeting in Parliament and has to find a sink. 

Jack asks me to mail a letter and promise not to tell. 

It's a letter to the police, saying they'll never catch him, 

they're far too late, and it says it's sent 

"From Hell."

Jack puts on his coat and heads for Westminster. 

I tell him I'll mail his note, afraid he won't be my friend 

if I don't. I'm tempted to tell the Prime Minister, but it 

would do no good - he's the one who signed the bill 

Preacher Booth called a license to kill.

Tonight, below my room on Mitre Square, I hear 

a scream. I think of Saucy Jack - if she ain't human, 

what does it matter? I pretend it's all a dream, I pretend 

I'm not a coward, all the while a toothless nobody is 

sliced and overpowered. A little while passes, it's quiet 

on the Square; she ain't human, I think, 

why should anybody care?

Like clockwork, I hear a call for help and a 

peeler carriage clink and clatter.
Like a postcard from hell, my heart receives a message - 

"she ain't human; what's it matter?"