Made from dead, body parts and lightning bolt;
with cut-up hearts and a dead convict's brain
that pines for death like a death song's refrain
and longs for the peaceful sepulcher vault;
its origins were not designed by fault
of God, on the jut of that farmost plain
of Frankenstein--a madman once again
by granting the monster's Bride, lest he revolt.
That mad scientist then fashioned its bride
with lifeless parts and lightning's brilliant surge.
She came to life and saw him at her side:
but she screamed--his face was an ugly scourge!
So died his hope to ease his living hell--
this hopeless freak of this most wretched tale!