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ELLSWORTH, Maine (AP) — A Maine court has given the ex-wife of "American Pie" singer Don McLean an order of protection against him.

McLean pleaded guilty in July to domestic violence assault. His lawyer said at the time that his punishment would be a $3,000 fine if he stayed out of trouble for a year.

Court officials say the court granted a final order of protection on Wednesday that will last for two years. It was preceded by a temporary order.

Patrisha McLean says she is glad the order was granted. Don McLean's attorney did not immediately return a phone call seeking comment.

McLean is a Camden resident who was arrested in January 2016. He is best known for the song "American Pie," which topped the Billboard chart 45 years ago.

‘American Pie’ Singer Don McLean Is A ‘Cruel’ Racist & Abuser, Ex-Wife Claims
Court documents reveal horrifying claims about his 'house of horrors.'

Rock legend Don McLean is a brutal tyrant who terrorized his kids, starved the family pets — and battered his ex-wife so badly she still suffers post-traumatic stress disorder!

Those are the shocking charges Patrisha McLean leveled against the 70-year-old in explosive divorce documents exclusively obtained by RadarOnline.com.

“Don manhandled me so much that I cannot tell you specifically the first time it happened,” Patrisha claimed under oath, saying it happened, “when he got mad … angry enough to manhandle me at least once a month I would say.”

She filed for divorce March 10, 2016, after 30 years of marriage, citing “adultery, cruel and abusive treatment and irreconcilable differences.” The split was made official in June.

She described raising the couple’s two children, now adults, in a “house of horrors” where Don, who was arrested in January for domestic violence, routinely beat and belittled her.

She claimed he called her the “C-word” and “anti-Semitic slurs like ‘Hebe’ and ‘K–e,’ ” along with “constant use of the terms ‘stupid, idiot, moron.'”

In a 2016 incident, she claimed, he crushed her temples with his hands, giving her “severe headaches for three weeks.”

Patrisha claimed he said, “I want to strangle you so bad.”

In a memo to the court, Patrisha’s therapist claimed, “The more chronic types of physical abuse by Don happened on a monthly basis … and included pinching, squeezing and twisting arms and legs, punching, shoving, jabbing, hair-pulling and kicking.”

“Don was careful that these bruises were on Pat’s legs and arms, which she could cover up, but not on her face.”

McLean also starved and punched the family’s horses, and chained their dogs to a “two-foot leash on the post of the front stairway,” according to the papers.

“Pat and her children were forced to listen helplessly while the dogs cried,” the file stated.

Even worse, Patrisha claimed Don hurled racial insults when their daughter dated an African-American man, and played a sick game with their kids — actually “branding them with a ring in their flesh.”

Don has not commented.

It really sucks how every day of my life these days it seems like something I once believed in turns out to be a fraud.

The older I get, the more I understand just how unusual my childhood was. I lived in a house on a hill, far away from the small town below, with my parents, my brother and a vivid, Technicolor cast of virtual friends. My father was afraid to let us leave the house. He always told us that it was dangerous outside. Friends were not allowed to come over. My hair was long and flowing, I had a whole hilltop to myself, and, late at night, I would lean out of my bedroom window, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of a lone dog in the distance, the wind in the trees, the music of the peepers’ chorus.

There were long stretches of time when I’d lie still, alone with silence and my own nebulous thoughts, romantic visions in my head, and play elaborate imagined interactions in my mind where I was part of something bigger, one member of an interconnected network of peers: an orphan in an orphanage, a Jane Austen adolescent, a visitor to Oz.

In large groups of people, such as at school, I wandered in my own reverie. I observed all the minutiae of social behavior, but I was always adrift on the edge of it. I was desperate to play a part, but I hadn’t learned to perform. The language they spoke was as if from another country.

My father could never forgive us for growing up. He wanted to keep us, his lost children, in a Peter Pan fantasy.
My best friend was my brother, Wyatt. We were each other’s only witnesses. We set up sleeping bags on the floor of his immaculate room and put our heads together next to the Sony boom box. “Annie, are you OK?” Over and over and over again. We used printer paper to dress up as our favorite characters. I was Oliver Hardy, Wyatt was Tom Mix. When the house felt too empty, we stood on the driveway and sang. I wove elaborate harmonies over my brother’s pure tenor. The Kingston Trio, Glenn Miller, Judy Garland.

My father could never forgive us for growing up. He wanted to keep us, his lost children, in a Peter Pan fantasy. Every sign of growth caused an outburst, a strain on the bubble that contained us. As I got older, I took to hiding in my room more and more. My very appearance was evidence of my failure to stay the way he wanted me to. Every day he talked wistfully about the good times when we were immobile, mute, helpless against any influence. “I remember when you were first born,” he’d say, “you were the first thing that was ever completely mine.”

BoSoxGal wrote:From his daughter:

... “I remember when you were first born,” he’d say, “you were the first thing that was ever completely mine.”