John Wayne Gacy, Jr.

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.

- Sufjan Stevens