Your creator
was a doctor
in a castle
near the Rhine.
On a slab
inside his lab
you were constructed,
Frankenstein.

Arms and legs and
head and torso,
that the doctor
did combine.
Bolts of lightning,
very frightening,
gave you life, dear
Frankenstein.

Then you rose up
from the table
with a bellow
and a whine.
You went lurching,
you were searching
for some dinner,
Frankenstein.

When the townsfolk
saw you coming,
you sent shivers
down their spines.
So they chased you
with their pitchforks
and their torches,
Frankenstein.

Then you lumbered
in the forest,
where you hid
amongst the pine
while the doc, he
did concoct me—
yes, a bride
for Frankenstein.

We were married
in the castle,
and forever
you’ll be mine.
We’re a creature
double feature,
oh my darling,
Frankenstein.

Text © Kenn Nesbitt, reprinted from Dinner with Dracula, published by Meadowbrook Press. Illustration © Mike and Carl Gordon. Any copying or use of this poem or illustration without consent is unlawful.

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