Young Frankenstein

The Young Frankenstein

In the mist‑laden Vale of Frankenstein,
Young Robert, son of the late great one,
Trod the sands of a cursed dream
Where fates and follies were in the same.

The old manor, with its grand tower,
Stood a relic of lost wonder,
Its corridors forever cast
In the shadow of mad‑tutor.

His hands, with trembling eagerness,
Rewrote the arcane scrolls,
Whilst the village held its breath,
A town that loves its “programme” of old roles.

"Christ end," he whispered to the dark,
His voice a rusted choir’s sigh,
A creature of uncanny shape did form,
From a body built while the world blinds.

Igor, that prattle‑ridden friend,
With his moustache, his tragic grin,
Guided the fiddlers through the bones,
A one‑ironed flavour, thick as din.

The parody of revisionist terror,
A carnival of bile and jest,
Talks of "colour" and "humour" in the midst
Of the eclipse of life's fresh quest.

Young Frankenstein's hands, in rush, did spin,
A root of science sown with point of curse,
Yet the two worlds together bleed into one,
In a place as bleak as an unlit pier.

So let the tale keep spinning,
In the wind-blasted lanes of German lore,
Where a foolish “labour” reaches,
And a bright, ceylery‑star is floored.

In the end, a kindly cave of self‑sustained romance,
As the film drifts, it fingerprint certain swiftness
And a mood of gratitude of the greatest makes —
A heart that seems to journey to a new age.