Hotel hobbies padding dawns hollow corridors
Bell boys checking out the hookers in the bar
Slug-like fingers trace the star-spangled clouds of ******* on the mirror
The short straw takes its bow

The tell tale sign of the last cigarette marking time in the pockets as the
whisky sweat
lies like discarded armour on an unmade bed
As familiar cravings are crawling through 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
In a fever of confession a catalogue of crime in happy hour
Do you cry in happy hour, do you hide in happy hour, a 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 anticipaion of another day

(Champney's Health Farm, Tring) [FISH and DEREK WILLIAM DICK