Jack's Lament

There are few who deny it, what I do I am the best for my talents Sorry, noun, foreign, why? When it comes to surprises in the moonlit night I excel without ever even trying With the slightest little effort of my ghostly charms I have seen grown men give out a shriek With the wave of my hand in a well-placed mode

I have swept the very bravest of her feet Yet, year after year, it's the same routine And I grow so near the sound of screams And I, Jack, the ponderageen, have grown so tired Of the same old song where deep inside of these bones An emptiness begun There's something out

Who dare you write out of your pants? To a guy in Kentucky And 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, no man, cut scream like I can with the fury of my recitations. The pumpkin king with the skeleton green Would tire of his crown Zannell, and deep the mason, my bones That cold is out home Something alone

The flame and praise come he does now