Sunset Werf


Now, master Frankenstein, most senior and benign,

Had assembled many creatures

With both plain and fancy features,

Some with wings, some with tentacles or claws,

Furs or feathers, beaks or paws

And all the other possibilities of design.


But aged and retired, alone and unadmired,

Except for Werf, his old dog,

Also old, in mental fog,

Who merely dreamt of hunting rabbits.

No longer capable of habits

Of leaping after prey ā€‘ too weak and much tired.


The master looked with pity and with love

Upon the ancient ailing hound.

“By God,” he cried, “I’ve found

It possible to bestow new life

With skills of healing and my knife.

Why not give mother nature one more shove?”


So, with energy and love inspired

He sorted through his organ stores ā€‘

Kidneys, eyeballs, muscles, bones ā€‘ he ignores

The doggy stuff, for his dream has joy.

He will create Werf as a boy!

Werf will be the son he never sired.


Long hours he assembled all the parts.

With care and seamless integration

Fitted he the nose, the knees in expert preparation.

He carpeted the skull with perfect face

And engineered the body made with grace

By his expertise in surgic arcane arts.


The final act concerned old Werf’s brain.

Deftly then he scooped it from its skull,

Its awareness made, with drugs, completely dull,

And set it neatly into its connection

In culminating wisdom and affection

On the throne where it could start its human reign.


Free of lightning rods upon the roof,

The doctor plugged his boy into a socket

Set the timer switch to clock it

And pushed the button set to make the heart aflutter

While waiting for the sound his boy would utter.

The lungs most gently prompted, “Woof!”


Werf, at first, inclined to doggy mode.

He scampered after cats and gnawed on bones.

But multitudes of bribes of ice cream cones

Gained him an elevated human status

Along with abstract thought that does unflate us

To journey on the more human road.


In short time he mastered the techniques,

That Frankenstein took years to acquire,

With cleverness and overweened desire.

He learned all the doctor’s witchery

To free his master from daily drudgery

To manufacture frogs, monsters and freaks.


But the old man grew weary. He required

Rejuvenation through a unique formation

To continue without consternation.

So Werf repaid his debt in like kind

By a transplant of his master’s mind

Into a form familiar and inspired.


Nowadays Werf has his own canine.

A dog that romps with joy with bones and balls,

Who delights in full life that never palls,

Who sniffs at lamp posts, bushes and trees

And unashamedly, with gusto, pees.

His faithful dog, his love, his Frankenstein.





One thought on “Werf

  1. I am in your boat, Jan.
    Creatures other that humans have their own way of logic and they apply it joyfully without regret.


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