There are few who deny at what I do I am the best, for me talants are renouned far and wide.
When it come surprises in the moonlit night I excel without ever even trying.
With the slight little effort of my ghostlike charms I have seen grown men give out a shrike.
With a wave of my hand and a well-placed moan I have swept the very bravest of their fect.
Yet year after year its the same routine and I grow so weary of the sound of screams.
And, I, Jack, the Pumpkin King, have grouwn 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 a longing that I've never know.