Mama, I'm writing to you, 
I want to believe, you're still there
At our home, waiting for me.
Years have past, I'm not the one you knew, 
There's no more your little angel. 

They call the place they live in
Whitechapel but they've mutilated its sense,
It is not white, 
There's more vice and dirt and sins 
Than anywhere else, anywhere else. 

They call, call me Fair... Fair Emma
I wish they saw me, being a child
Walking with you, holding hands
Being entirely happy.

I am so young, I want to see what happens
In 1889. I want to see the [bad word] 
To my modest room. 

I was a spirit of vice but now
I am vice without  spirit.
My heart's as cold as cold the steel 
Touching my neck.