Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror The short straw took its bow
The tell tale tocking of the last cigarette Marking time in the packet as the whisky sweat Lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed And a familiar craving is crawling in his head
And the only sign of life is the ticking of the pen Introducing characters to memories like old friends Frantic as a cardiograph scratching out the lines A fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour, The pilgrimage to happy hour
New shadows tugging at the corner of his eye Jostling for attention as the sunlight flares Through a curtains tear, shuffling its beams As if in nervous anticipation of another day
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