I met the ghost of Will Toledo.
He haunts the young fag artist.
He had a blue and static glow.

I asked how he died: he called me slow.
He put my brains in his pocket.
I met the ghost of Will Toledo.

I brought up the dogs; he said art's a foe.
The paper died, but the ink survived,
with a blue and static glow.

I asked how he lived: he said we both know.
"My actor doesn't live, or breathe, or see."
I met the ghost of Will Toledo.

I asked why our spark has to go.
He lit my shirt, and he was the smoke.
We had a blue and ashy glow.

I wondered if that star would show.
He wisped in my ear, "Never touch a ghost."
I created a wraith named Will Toledo.
He gives a blue and painful glow.