Me and my humble assistant
Heading to a field full of corpses
Shovel in the back of the wagon
Sacks full of steel-covered forceps
Horses I can't put a name to
Whose hooves beat uneven pathos
Pickax tied to the side rail
Hornpipe ripe with tobacco

North light guiding my mission
List full of names from the den folk
Souls that were once quite lively
But now are just lines on the headstone
Trench coat damp from the weather
Flesh tone blue from the cold
One pen's lamp for your thoughts
Coulda been two that were meant for the dome
Woulda been news if the journals got wind of
The things I was planning to do
They all think I'm short on the good sense
And long as I'm long in the tooth
Truth is a question of morals
A quarrel shared by the mutant
They try to be blinded by science in the lives of their wives and their wombs
Tied to the boots and the heartstrings
The pubs and the booze and the drafts
Jailed by their own stupid musings
Confusing the future for past
See, these are the human conditions
That I have in kept in my well
Since I have stopped raising questions
And began my descent into Hell
Ugh, Frankenstein
It's Frankie, baby
Frankenstein
It's Frankie, baby