A demon slices his enemies away,
Slitting throats of men in dismay,
As vengeance is fueling his every need,
Deciphering his heart's solemn call of heed
Where thousands roam the London streets,
Adhering the gasp as his victims breathe,
Piercing the incision around their gory necks,
A call of life where it slowly begets.
The demon barber of Fleet Street roams,
As his customers breathe through endless foams,
Of blood gushing out their garrulous heads,
Where nothing cynical can ever be said
Dying in the Levantine grounds,
Moaning like dreaded injured hounds,
As the night is slowly taken away,
As their bloody flesh goes astray,
Below the cryptic murderer's frown
As light shines the demon barber's story,
His actions would lead to perpetual glory,
Where reputations would remain in the shadows,
Victims of gore demean beneath the gallows
Where Sweeney Todd could roam freely,
As his life would succumb to madness deeply.
