Anne Marie St. Claire

There's 40 miles of Highway 2 up in the old U.P.
They run beside Lake Michigan, that restless inland sea.
They're haunted by a girl who died when she was young and fair,
Her age no more than sweet 16, Anne Marie St. Claire.

	The year was '57, in the balmy month of May,
	Anne Marie was cruising in her daddy's Chevrolet.
	Her boyfriend wore a suit of black, and she was all in white,
	A gentle was rain falling on that misty starless night.

The pickup had no lights on when it pulled out from the bar,
She never knew what hit her when it crashed into her car,
Her sweetheart lived to tell the tale, but Anne Marie was dead,
The drunken man who hit them suffered bruises to his head.

CHORUS:
	If you're driving in the dark between the Straits and Naubinway,
	Be sure you're stone cold sober if you love the light of day.
	If not, the smiling blue-eyed ghost of Anne Marie St. Claire
	May send you to your maker in her '56 Bel Air.

The St. Claires laid their dear to rest, her killer they forgave.
You still can see her likeness smiling gently from her grave.
But once or twice each year they find some driver plastered stiff
Who died by swerving off the road and plunging down the cliffs.

	A single set of skid marks at the scene is ever found,
	No evidence at all of any other car around.
	A few survivors claim they saw this ancient Chevrolet,
	The lights came out of nowhere, and it was headed straight their way.

The young girl who was driving wore a strapless snow-white dress,
They whisper, "Was it Anne Marie?", the old ones answer "Yes."
Now, some will say it's vengeance, some will say it's only right,
But I just say "Be careful!" when you're drinking late at night.

CHORUS

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