His father was a drinker 

And his mother cried in bed

Folding John Wayne's t-shirts

When the swingset hit his head

The neighbors they adored him 

For his humor and his conversation

Look underneath the house there 

Find the few living things, rotting fast, in their sleep 

Oh, the dead



Twenty-seven people 

Even more, they were boys

With their cars, summer jobs 

Oh my God



Are you one of them?



He dressed up like a clown for them 

With his face paint white and red

And on his best behavior 

In a dark room on the bed 

He kissed them all

He'd kill ten thousand people 

With a sleight of his hand

Running far, running fast to the dead

He took off all their clothes for them

He put a cloth on their lips

Quiet hands, quiet kiss on the mouth



And in my best behavior 

I am really just like him

Look beneath the floor boards 

For the secrets I have hid