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There are few who deny at what I do I am the best |
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For my talents are renowned far and wide |
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When it comes to surprises in the moonlit night |
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I excel without ever even trying |
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With the slightest little effort of my ghostlike charm |
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I have seen grown men give out a shriek |
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With a wave of my hand and a wall placed moan |
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I have swept the very bravest off their feet |
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Yet year after year it's the same routine |
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And I grow so weary of the sound of screams |
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And I, Jack, the Pumpkin King |
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Have grown so tired of the same old thing |
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Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones |
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An emptiness began to grow |
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There's something out there, far from my home |
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A longing that I've never known |
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I'm a master of frig and a demon of light |
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And I'll scare you right out of your pants |
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To a guy in Kentucky, I'm Mister Unlucky |
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And I'm known throughout England and France |
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And since I am dead, I can take off my head |
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To recite Shakespearean quotations |
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No animal nor man can scream like I can |
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With the fury of my recitations |
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But who here would ever understand? |
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That the Pumpkin King with the skeleton grin |
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Would tire of his crown, if they only understood |
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He'd give it all up if he only could |
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Oh, there's an empty place in my bones |
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That calls out for something unknown |
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The fame and praise come year after year |
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Does nothing for these empty tears |
