There are few who'd deny, at what I do I am
The best
For my talents are renowned far and wide
When [bad word] to surprises in the moonlit
Night
I excel without ever even trying
With the slightest little effort of my ghostlike
Charms
I have seen grown men give out a shriek
With the wave of my hand, and a well-placed
Moan
I have swept the very bravest off their feet

Yet year after year, it's the same routine
And I grow so weary of the sound of screams
And I, jack, the Pumpkin King
Have grown so tired of the same old thing

Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones
An emptiness began to grow
There's something out there, far from my
Home
Ionging that I've never known

I'm a master of fright, and a demon of light
And l'II scare you right out of your pants
To a guy in Kentucky, I'm Mister Unlucky
And I'm known throughout England and
France

And since I am dead, I can take off my head
To recite Shakespearean quotations
No animal nor man can scream like I can

With the fury of my recitations

But who here would ever understand
That the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin
Would tire of his crown, if they only
Understood
He'd give it all up if he only could

Oh, there's an empty place in my bones
That calls out for something unknown
The fame and [bad word] year after year
Does nothing for these empty tears