He walks in white—stained deep in red,

Through neon alleys, heads turn in dread.

The drip is slow, but he never breaks pace,

There’s fire in his eyes—you’d best not face.

His steps hit hard like thunder’s call,

Red down his shirt, but no one stalls.

Just some sauce? Or something worse?

No one asks—they fear the curse.

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Dripping down, dripping down!)

Moving quick, but they hold their breath— (Don’t ask! Don’t stare—but they sense the death!)

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Burning bright in electric glow!)

Is it a stain—or a sign below?

They say he’s part of the Pasta Club,

From secret halls where sauces bubble up.

His clothes are marked, but he walks like fate,

And something in him radiates hate.

Maybe he knows, maybe he hears,

The breathless hush, the growing fears.

Just marinara? Sure, why not…

So why does the sky turn inkblot hot?

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Dripping down, dripping down!)

Moving quick, but they hold their breath— (Don’t ask! Don’t stare—but they sense the death!)

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Burning bright in electric glow!)

Is it a stain—or a sign below?

He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pause,

Just a man—or a secret cause.

No fork in sight—just pasta bare,

Clutched in his hands like a silent prayer.

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Dripping down, dripping down!)

In neon veins, he slips through sound— (Is it just sauce, or something unbound?)

Mister, you’ve got red on you! (Burning bright in electric glow!)

Is it a stain—or a sign below?

He keeps walking, rain like ash,

Red still gleaming in every splash.

No one asks, no one cries,

They just look down—and avert their eyes.