Ask Him, Victor Frankenstein, Your Next Best Friend Poem by M. A Heathcote

He was a creature unlike any other.
An assemblage of body parts, my brother.

And Victor Frankenstein was his evil name.
Created and won a wager; it was a claim.

Created by Mary, pried away from her breast
Yes, Mary Shelley, you wrought horrors of unrest.

Laid bare, fully opened his casket—revile.
How was it possible that you wrote a book so vile?

Even today, it's the greatest horror writ
The worst of it is that they can do it and omit.

Doesn't every part matter as a counterfeit?
They still make work of each and every part to fit.

Sow one face to another; where will it end?
Ask him, Victor Frankenstein, your next best friend.