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 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,
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 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