His father was a drinker 
And his mother cried in bed
Folding John Wayne's t-shirts
When the swingset hit his head
The neighbors they adored him 
For his humor and his conversation
Look underneath the house there 
Find the few living things, rotting fast, in their sleep 
Oh, the dead

Twenty-seven people 
Even more, they were boys
With their cars, summer jobs 
Oh my God

Are you one of them?

He dressed up like a clown for them 
With his face paint white and red
And on his best behavior 
In a dark room on the bed 
He kissed them all
He'd kill ten thousand people 
With a sleight of his hand [bad word] far [bad word] fast to the dead
He took off all their clothes for them
He put a cloth on their lips
Quiet hands, quiet kiss on the mouth

And in my best behavior 
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floor boards 
For the secrets I have hid