Lletres: Sufjan Stevens. Illinois. 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 all were 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 slight 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