Marillion

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 takes its bow
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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
And a familiar craving is crawling through his head
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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
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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