There are few who 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 ghost-like charms
I have seen grown men give out a shriek
With a 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 l, 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
longing that
I've never known
I'm the master of fright
And a demon of light
And I'll scare you right out of your pants
To a guy in Kentucky I'm Mr. 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
lf 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 praise [bad word] year after year
Does nothing for
These empty tears