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 |