In a dim litted bar in the city,
You can see her any night of the week,
Selling her favours to strangers,
Giving them the pleasures they seek.
If you look into her eyes you'll see sorrow,
Replacing what used to be pride,
You are looking at sweet Annie Johnson,
With the ghost of the lady inside.
Oh, the smiles that are part of her business,
Tender words that are part of her trade,
Fancy clothes that are Annie's diploma
Small reward for the price she has paid.
Satisfaction is Annie's delusion,
But her pleasure is just a charade
No one cares about poor Annie Johnson,
No one cares about the lady inside.
Instrumental
I recall how we once played together,
And the way that her bright eyes would shine,
As I watched her grow into a lady,
And I thought that she'd always be mine.
One more round for the boys in the back room,
One more round for the passing of time,
As the tears for the sweet Annie Johnson,
And the tears for the lady inside.
I remember Sweet Annie Johnson,
Long before the lady had died.

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