There are few who deny it, 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 ghost-like charms, I have seen grown men give out a shriek. With the wave of my hand and a well-placed bow, 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 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 Mr. 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.