Lyrics
Doctor Sacks, the master knower of Easter, was now reduced to penury
And looking at stained-glass windows in old churches
His only two last friends in this life, this impossibly
Hard life, no matter under what conditions it appears
Were Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff
Who visited him annually in his room on Third Street
And cut through the fogs of evening with their heads bent
As the bells of Saint Simon tolled a heartbroken Kathleen
Across the rooftops of old hotels
Where similar old men like Doctor Sacks sat bent-headed on beds of woe
With prayer beads between their feet
O moaning, homes for lost pigeons or times immemorial white dove
Of the roses, of the unborn, astonished bliss
And there they'd sit
In the little room
Sacks on the edge of the bed with a bottle of rotgut tokay in his hand
Bela in the old rocking chair
Boris standing by the sink, and sigh
And then Sacks would always say, "Please play the monster for me."
And of course the old actors, who loved him dearly
And came to see him for human tender sentimentality
Not monstrous reasons, protested
But he always got drunk and cried, so that
Boris first had to get up and extend his arms
"Do Frankenstein go up?"
Then Bela would stand
And arm, cape and leer
And approach Sacks, who squealed
