He was somewhat fluent
Quite congruent in methods of pursuance
Yet you've never known his touch
The thought is that he's someone else
The stimulus to touch yourself
And you treat him as such
He retells the tragedies
symphonies to remedies
You have a faint recollection of voice
He'll smile at you on the street
Shun him away in discrete
All the while keeping your poise
You'll think he's a ghost
While at the most he writes a post
Like any other myspace whore
He'll review his message queue
Imagining the rendevue
where he'll verify-
you're real for sure
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