Track 13 - The Wytches

In her sunshine blouse

She prefers to keep the desperate men out

If I stay far away and then she’ll feel okay

'Cause the smile on her face is poison

In her rotary chair

She’s spinning too fast and it spits out her hair

And she’s well-known for a tendency’s grown

As the number on the scales shiver

And we fight like the crows

Shoulders, elbows

All covered in blood from the phone girl’s last purge

Between selling me

Your lover passing

Well I fell with no pain

But it hurts just the same

Annabelle’s in the rain

Reading those dreams for the number or names

Well she comes across like an animal lost

But her cage is the cleanest around

And her parents hold her down in the night

Before closing her eyes she said, «Everything's fine»

When she next arrives with a conscience divine

And a smile on her face, artificial

Yes the smile on your face, artificial

Well I said to her parents

Running family since birth

And I feel like I won

Buried body in dirt

On my birthday I scream

«Every day’s a bad dream

Or a story to sell

But stop reading me Annabelle»