There are a few who'd deny, at what I do I am the best,
for my talents are renowened far and wide.
When it comes 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-packed moan
I have swept the very bravest of 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, someone deep inside of these bones,
An emptiness began to grow.
There's something out there, far from my home,
A linging that I've never known.
I' the mater of right, and a demons 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 praise come year after year,
does nothing for these empty tears.
