Knock, knock, Pumpkinhead fool,

Pumpkinhead, can you hear me?

Cause I'z think you're just full of air,

But Ima here ta play a bitter game.

And I'z know it's come'n time of year,

Where pranks and scares abound us,

But why dat spindle swivel'n so weird?

Ah, here jostle'n ta prepare a meal of royal hallow,

Yet dey clack'n dat knee left inta a fearish hobble,

Ohh right, it's just another slender a’creepn spider,

A tangled network of fear, and so hungry, m'dear.

Gots ta worry, Beard's box-dye-black witch's stare is tryn ta cackle my eye insecure,

deGrees keeps an off-knocker Lainey-Bat close handy, twist'n up untied pumpkins,

She's even gots a gassy travel’n broomwagon ta tempt dis tawny’s wistful first date.

Dey try'n ta bag-a-head and bake a dumb a'Pumpkinhead cake!

Dem types always will'n ta shred open up a shrew-looking veg,

And a pumpkin be a fine patch atop a lufty Prince's airhead.

And yet, whenever dey punch at shelled edge,

Smash'n at dis stupid orange, sorelined face,

Der hands only slime of seedy-sticky disgrace.

But Beard deGrees knows how ta shuffle stick a motley hallow crew,

A rabid pack of black and white always been der dull mindless rue,

With bully mouths and secret ears bend'n in a'creeper listen'n way,

And like no haunt'n before, did dey treat on da poor's spiritual sways.

It’s troubl’n too, cause if Fur Pepe Pigeonrat of Rottenseed amoks freely, 

Ima not too sure anyone will think clearly in such a grand waft'n smellery.

So, gotta tell ya true, dis damn Pumpkinhead is tired of wolfish bully'n ways,

Thou, admittedly, a Beard moans on moon nights, become'n an excitable pup,

But a Pigeonrat only rolls thicker inta sewer shit, plague'n everyone around him.

Best part of be'n a Pumpkinhead used ta be,

You gots ta fill your empty head with anything,

Toxicated on whatever, till it flow'd out ur eyes.

But a rancid raty smell'n is a-come'n,

So I'z gotta mind da patch ta still breath.

And while a night sight'n of a haunt'n can be sumthin daunt'n, come'n at ya all a’sudden,

Dis here Pumpkinhead knows; a roll'n, open-mouthed shit-for-seeds…is frighten'n indeed.

All along, dis dumb Pumpkinhead Twirl only wanted ta spring a field bountiful,

Rest’n growth under da sun, brush’n neighbours, and fruit’n all ova-da place.