A shadow stands in ghastly gloom,
dead eyes glint with savage glee,
a crowd surrounding gallows high,
the murder of a saint to see.
The clock chimes twelve and deed is done,
he laughs and returns to his bloody den,
his masquerade played out to full,
he'll collect his tools and kill again.
He's waited far to long for this,
one mistake, one lapse in thought,
but for his genius he would have swung,
his plans in tatters had he been caught..
He had to stop his savage dance,
wait for another to take his place,
innocent hands to stain with blood,
angel given demon's face.
Standing now in secret room,
he grasps a pouch of thread and pins,
before him drawn with loving care,
the image of a manequin.