The Pouring Rain

A man was walking late one night, in the pouring rain,
A trenchcoat on to keep him dry, he did not look insane,
But what you wouldn't notice, dripping from a slaughter,
The blood that dripped from a knife, diluting in the water.

He tossed the knife into a street bin, and continued on his way,
He had to get back home and clean, before the break of day,
It was only a matter of time before, someone would see his mess,
A woman in her evening best, a ripped apart designer dress.

The street was cold and lonely, not a place to be all alone,
The stabbing was so quick and merciless, a muffled painful moan,
He didn't need her jewels and such, it was the thrill of it that's all,
He let her hit the ground full speed, and didn't assist her fall.

Walking down the side streets, he suddenly heard a screaming sound,
This was his queue to pick up pace, his body someone had found,
Five minutes later the sound of sirens, as they all rushed to the scene,
But the constant downpour of the rain, they will never know where he's been.

The tabloids had reported it, they say police know who it is,
They have their suspect and his address, but he knew it won't be his,
A thing that police say all the time, when they really have no clue,
But you can't go ahead and tell the public, it's the only thing they can do.