| There are few who’d deny, at what I do I am the best |
| For my talents are renowned 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-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 |
| A longing that I’ve never known |
| I’m a 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 praise come year after year |
| Does nothing for these empty tears |