The Butcher, a poem written by James Walmsley at Spillwords.com
SHOT

The Butcher

written by: James Walmsley

 

The howl of wind and the fall of leaves,
As darkness shrouds this Hallowed Eve.
Scraping the knife across the stone,
Making sure it will slash to the bone.

The crooked smile in the broken mirror,
The whetted blade ready to deliver.
Out tonight looking for a throat to cut
Jack is back and he will rip and gut.

He silently walks in the dark of night,
His blade reflects the pale moonlight.
His heart is black his eyes are dead,
His only wish is to sever a head.

He saw her blonde hair then her face,
He watched her walk so full of grace.
His heart beating he quickened his pace,
His mind was racing he loved the chase.

She turned the corner and entered a shop
This he knew would be her last stop.
He touched the blade with a smile,
He knew his work would take a while.

He quietly opened then closed the door,
He knew exactly where she would go.
He carried the body to the bench,
He slit it open and gagged at the stench.

Cutting and chopping he dismembered,
Just as thrilling as he remembered.
The door burst open and up Jack looked,
The policeman saw the head on the hook.

He looked at the blood and the gore,
He could not believe what he saw.
Bits of bodies all in rows,
What bits they were only Jack knows.

The blonde walked in from the back
She looked at Jack and the offal sack.
The policeman looked at the blonde,
And the blonde looked back.

I’ve just popped in and I’m glad I did,
I saw you working on that lovely pig.
Sorry I can’t stay I would love to talk,
But can I have some of you lovely pork.

James Walmsley

James Walmsley

I am a retired Engineer, I now spend my time writing and playing guitar.
James Walmsley

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This publication is part 58 of 64 in the series 13 Days of Halloween