I'm reworking and expanding the universe I created with "The Butcher of Whitechapel" This will be expanding the story across many more songs. I'm starting to redo the original songs and then expanding from there. ------------------------------------------------ Whitechapel dreams beneath my boots, Fog pools where Dorset doorways rot. The gutter's warm, the stone gone cold, I count the candle stubs you save. I feed on soot and matchbox dust, On rags stuffed tight in broken glass. I break the lantern, hear it hiss, A door latch drops. The street goes still. In fog I wake, the gutters mine, Gas lamps stutter one by one. The street stays still, the street stays blind, I am the blade that carves your name. Hush. hush. Over Whitechapel. A blade in mist, and still I grin, Nine feet of floor, six pressed within. Horse dung and coal smoke choke the air, A washing line hangs wet with care. Your breath goes white, your footsteps quicken, I drink the warmth you throw away. The fog's my coat, I know these streets, I've learned the shape of every door. The courts go dark, the shutters shake, No watchman walks the road I take. I know your step before you wake, The city hums the tune I make. Hush. hush. Over Whitechapel. Come closer, hush, your footsteps stay. A constable's lamp swings far away. You count your steps, I count them too And one of us tonight has no name. The gutter keeps the oath I've sworn, I hum through stone when gas lamps fail. I crack your sleep with iron sighs, I grin where lanterns birth their lies. Each tongue that tells it carries mine. There. That one. I've watched her three nights. She counts her coins, thinks herself alone. Something older stirs beside my shoulder, Closer now than it has ever come. Tonight the debt gets paid. I've found my own. They'll tell my tale by candlelight, A warning passed from door to door. When lamps go dark, I still preside I am the blade I am you now. Hush. hush. Over Whitechapel. When fog returns, so too shall I Your breath, my blade, my lullaby.
