Jack D Ripper, a musical lad,
bounced through the forties in big, swinging bands.

Known for tomfoolery, and fretwork like fire,
he was nicknamed the Ripper, guitarist for hire.

Jack found himself a victim of fate,
of mistaken identity when evening was late.

In a bar his name slipped to a young English lass
who swung at poor Jack with sharp, broken glass.

Mistook for the slasher of old London town,
from a broken beer bottle Jack fell to the ground.

She came to her senses and stared at the floor,
realizing those murders were decades before.

As all went dark, Jack grabbed for her hand
“I ain’t even English, you’ve got the wrong man!”