Words & Music by Andrew Luttrell
© 2005 Echoeseven Music LTD (BMI) Andrew Luttrell, All Rights Reserved.
He walks through the door,
slapping the floor with his sandals
he made from your skin
He's making sure you don't let the guys in
With a pitchfork in hand,
this four-legged man has had control
of all your intentions
Well, you can't even see your reflection
And a simple phrase that you hear everyday
hasn't changed his phony affection
Oh, Ann Marie
He leans on your car,
sipping from a jar of molasses
you wished you'd spit in
You can tell he's adapted to poison
With a needle and thread,
he stitches the dead while you strut around
in redemption
If you're too close you'll catch his infection
You can see the rage written on every page
of the novel he wants you to live in
Oh, Ann Marie
Even though he is late,
he hands you a plate of self-doubt
with alienation
If you're too far, you'll miss the frustration
With a silent sigh,
you try to say goodbye, but your mouth is full
with hesitation
You forgot how to have conversation
You could walk for days and never leave your maze
which he built for you to decay in
Oh, Ann Marie