The boy of the hour's clad in thigh high dreams
Blushing shades of controversial pink and red
Where the ghost helps the boy with his stories seams
And the pills are hanging thinly from a thread
Now the cake's frosted high with the missing words
But the audience has blown it all to bits
It's the boy, like a rock, who is flying high as birds
And the grown ups who are throwing all the fits
Yet the ghost, slinking on with the hourly pain
Has forgotten to remember all his lines
So the boy carry's on with the kissing game
"It's not right!", yet they should have seen the signs
So the boy and the ghost link their arms and spit
For the chances of survival are quite slim
With a lick of the cake, they have lies to commit
And the audience blamed the causalities on "him"
