They say that I was pieces sewn together.
They haven’t read the story carefully.
Victor did not concoct a patchwork me
Then cross his arms and wait for stormy weather.
Folks: I was eight feet tall! What cemetery
Would yield a seamstress pieces of that size?
Of Hollywood’s absurd, simplistic lies,
Let the discerning intellect be wary!
The process was supremely complicated.
The secret was a snake that ate its tail.
The product was a soul foredoomed to wail.
The victory of lightning was ill-fated.
The purpose was as cloudy as the means.
Aspiring deities require their fiends.