Although the actual authenticity of this poem's authorship is questionable, Jack The Ripper was credited with sending various taunts in verse to the police during his killing spree. The following poem is especially creative and chilling...very akin to the style and sound of The Ripper's literary exchange with the authorities.
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(Transcription)

Eight little ******, with no hope of heaven,
Gladstone may save one, then there'll be seven.
Seven little ****** beggin for a shilling,
One stays in Henage Court, then there's a killing.
Six little ******, glad to be alive,
One sidles up to Jack, then there are five.
Four and ***** rhyme aright,
So do three and me,
I'll set the town alight
Ere there are two.
Two little ******, shivering with fright,
Seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night.
Jack's knife flashes, then there's but one,
And the last one's the ripest for Jack's idea of fun.

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The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. EPILOGUE. "for Jack's idea of fun."

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With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/ripperletters/

i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.

It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.

On the streets of heat and movement
lie the evidence of pain,
she walks, he talks, the children run
throughout the burning rain.

I can smell the smoke of lifelessness
along the living death,
we talk, they walk, the sirens wail
today may rob our breath.

In the rooms of waste and apathy,
sit silent the insane,
she writes, he writes, the samll hand ticks
the hours fast away...

From puppyhood's hour I have not peed,
As others sniffed, I have not gleaned,
As others pawed, I could not seem,
To bark along with the canine teams.
From the hydrants red and wet with drizzle,
I have ne'er to leave  my yellow stream,
For my bladder had all fizzled,
Clogged with endless hordes of fleas.
Then- at the vet's, one gloomy dawn,
A very strange device was drawn,
And poked and prodded where I ill,
Then I was forced to take a pill.
Then from  the torrent of this river,
My shaggy fur began to quiver,
Upon my haunches did indeed I rose,
Feeling wetly coldness on my nose,
Then the raging yellow stream,
At last dislodged itself of fleas,
And to my great and sweet relief,
They lay a bone befor my feet.
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The original poem:
  
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Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
--edgar allan poe

is sick
and to die...
all i can do
is sit here and
cry...

Satin-textured shamrock flower,
whose eyes chrome the seas
of the faded cushioned theatre seats,
with their sparkling, piercing power--
You,
saunter sprightly up and down,
lyrical laughter over-bounds,
in quick-timing
to the taste
of your Irish school-girl ways.

We take time enough to see,
those livid, lush-red cheeks,
(ripe, rose-blushed every time
as you savour sweet the wine)
that sanctifies
your softly senses,
sans pretenses,
whereon your wings of
wonder float and fly.

Scented, tactile spirit-showers,
all the joy we need,
as the stage-light's haunting beam,
Sheers the magic of this hour--
You,
lightly lift us off the ground,
set us oh, so softly down
upon those rhyming wisps of air
that caress your auburn hair.

Now, I, a poor poet,
upon this paper
play
pleasing poetics of your praise,
whilst the ink upon these lines,
dries far faster than the tears
falling
from my wistful, yearning eyes
in exaltation of
your Wings of Wonder Ways.

The sea is the land's edge also..."*
--T. S. Eliot

It's a sand-castle in morning tide
slowly constructed
for the first time; and the horizon
sea-blue, distinctly separated from sky-blue
with a razor fine-line
liquid running steadily
into time.

I saw a small boy, ankle deep
in steaming sand
building illusional dreams of
Kings and Queens and Knights
because he can
do anything he wants,
while dolphins dive and dance
in the sunrise crystal morning
with his tiny, growing hands...

And when the seagulls circle by,
above hearty, browning palm trees,
eating as they please,
the kiss of water hits the shore
invoking a magnificent mystery music
just before

I
realize as certain memories arise,
that beyond this circumstance
lies connectedness,
an ******, wavering consequence,
leaving me to forsake
alone
ness:

When I wander along this temporal shore,
flying, sometimes falling
through these storms:
like the sea I am in many ways
so sometimes slowly dying
without pain,
and in a certain collectiveness, she reaches
forth her foamy hand,
blistering my cheeks in colours crimson, sweet,
erasing that child's castle
in the sand.

hey, you
i love you
so
smile...