victorian london, down in old whitechapel, a figure dances across the rooftops. he's got the wings of a vampyre, the beak of a bird, he has the tongue of a serpent and claws that are curled, he moves in the fog, like a phantom figure, terrifying children who lay in their beds, he's an assassin and cut throat contracted killer, he's the nightmare trapped in the walls of your head, and what ever you do, don't look back, its,
spring
heeled
jack!

in the shadows, in the shadows, 
something hideous waits
in the darkness, in the darkness.

on cobble stoned streets, lit by soft gas light, cats play games with the mice and the rats, while up in the rafters hanging out in the belfry, a mysterious shape jumps a great leap, plucks a poor stranger right of his feet, slices his guts, leaves him exposed, a feast for the ravens followed by crows, yes he's a phantom of londons mythological maze, whispering vengeance he's come to collect, an expert of death and related subjects so what ever you do, don't look back, it's,
spring
heeled
jack!