The monster has escaped from the dungeon
Where he was kept by the Baron,
Who made him with knobs sticking out from each side of his neck
Where the head was attached to the body
And stitching all over
Where parts of cadavers were sewed together.
He is pursued by the ignorant villagers,
Who think he is evil and dangerous because he is ugly
And makes ugly noises.
They wave firebrands at him and cudgels and rakes,
But he escapes and comes to the thatched cottage
Of an old blind man playing on the violin Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song.”
Hearing him approach, the blind man welcomes him:
“Come in, my friend,” and takes him by the arm.
“You must be weary,” and sits him down inside the house.
For the blind man has long dreamed of having a friend
To share his lonely life.
The monster has never known kindness ‹ the Baron was cruel
But somehow he is able to accept it now,
And he really has no instincts to harm the old man,
For in spite of his awful looks he has a tender heart:
Who knows what cadaver that part of him came from?
The old man seats him at table, offers him bread,
And says, “Eat, my friend.” The monster
Rears back roaring in terror.
“No, my friend, it is good. Eat gooood”
And the old man shows him how to eat,
And reassured, the monster eats
And says, “Eat gooood,”
Trying out the words and finding them good too.
The old man offers him a glass of wine,
“Drink, my friend. Drink gooood.”
The monster drinks, slurping horribly, and says,
“Drink gooood,” in his deep nutty voice
And smiles maybe for the first time in his life.
Then the blind man puts a cigar in the monster’s mouth
And lights a large wooden match that flares up in his face.
The monster, remembering the torches of the villagers,
Recoils, grunting in terror.
“No, my friend, smoke gooood,”
And the old man demonstrates with his own cigar.
The monster takes a tentative puff
And smiles hugely, saying, “Smoke gooood,”
And sits back like a banker, grunting and puffing.
Now the old man plays Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song” on the violin
While tears come into our dear monster s eyes
As he thinks of the stones of the mob the pleasures of meal-time,
The magic new words he has learned
And above all of the friend he has found.
It is just as well that he is unaware
Being simple enough to believe only in the present
That the mob will find him and pursue him
For the rest of his short unnatural life,
Until trapped at the whirlpool’s edge
He plunges to his death.