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 
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