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Hotel hobbies paddin' dawns hollow corridors |
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Bell boys checkin' out the hookers in the bar |
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Slug like fingers trace the star spangled clouds of cocaine on the mirror |
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The short straw took it's bow |
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The tell tale tockin' of the last cigarette |
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Markin' time in the packet as the whiskey sweat |
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Lies like discarded armor on an unmade bed |
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And a familiar cravin' is crawlin' in his head |
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And the only sign of life is the tickin' of the pen |
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Introducin' characters to memories like old friends |
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Frantic as a cardiograph scratchin' out the lines |
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A fever of confession a catalog of crime in happy hour |
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Do you cry in happy hour? |
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Do you hide in happy hour? |
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The pilgrimage to happy hour |
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New shadows tuggin' at the corner of his eye |
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Jostling for attention |
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When the sunlight flares |
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Through a curtains tear |
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Shufflin' its beams as if in nervous anticipation of another day |
