At the hotel where no one sleeps,
Insomnia hotel,
The tick tick tock of the clock,
And the sleepless nomads that mime it,
Whispers in the night as we watch the ceiling fans,
Listen to the others through thin walls,
People’s shouts,
Their muffled questions,
Crumpled sheets,
The crumpled hotel, motel,
And all its crumpled tenants,
Under the buzzing red sign,
Watching the buzzing TV screen
all it’s three channels,
and all those buzzing flies,
rocking,
you’re thinking it over,
drinking,
you can’t stand being
inside your own head,
trying to screw it on straight,
clear it,
on this UV dirty bed,
£40 per night,
Just to clear your thoughts,
We’ll bring you breakfast
if you’re still alive tomorrow,
a nice plate of food poisoning,
and we’ll check the bathroom first,
See if you’ll be reflected
in that spotted mirror,
Your swinging white corpse,
Floating in red,
We’ll check if you cleared your head,
One way or another,
Never felt so alone as you do
in this impersonal beige room,
nothing like this place,
to put it all in perspective,
nothing like that nicotine taste,
work out why you should live,
and forget what drove you here,
other than your hitchhikers thumb,
that crappy old banger,
of all the people in this hotel,
all your sleepless nights, waiting, shaking,
in here you’re still a stunner.