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