Lachlan Bourne

Lachlan Bourne walks in and the whole room goes silent. Like a ghost just died.

He’s so skinny, I bet he could fit in a coffin and still have room for a zombie.

I saw him in the hallway and I swear I heard my bones creak.

He’s so thin, he looks like he was made in a microwave.

Lachlan Bourne could be a noodle in a soup. No meat. No flavor. Just sad.

He walks like he’s about to fall apart. Like a broken chair.

He’s so skinny, even the scarecrow in the field has a complex.

Lachlan Bourne could be a scarecrow and still make the crows laugh.

He walks by and I swear the trees leaned in to look at him.

He’s like a stick. No meat. No life. Just a stick with a face.

Lachlan Bourne is so skinny, he could be a pencil. And he still wouldn’t write worth a damn.

He walks in and I thought he was a ghost. Then he spoke. Then I felt bad for him.

Lachlan Bourne is so thin, even the ghost in the school looks like it’s working out.

He walks in, and the ghost is like, 'Bro, I’m trying to haunt this place.'

He looks like he could be a ghost. And he probably is.

He’s so skinny, even a zombie would feel fat.

Lachlan Bourne walks in and the zombie stares at him like, 'Bro, I could eat you for breakfast.'

He’s so thin, even the zombie in the cafeteria is like, 'Bro, I feel fat now.'