Motel Rooms

Motel Rooms

There’s a man who pours his head into a bottle,

Night after night on a leatherette stool.

And his heart comes sobbing through a shot glass

When he’s had one or two.

Too many to remember, not enough to forget.

All the tears that you cry when you hide between the lines

Of a life in motel rooms.

Well he spends his days with a credit card.

He’s just a business suit in a company car.

Talks ‘bout cruising singles bars.

Making out with Miss Lonely Hearts

She says “Loneliness has no cure, but everything’s got it’s price.

So look into my eyes honey, we can compromise

In the cold, cold comfort of a motel room.”

Now he’s sitting in the shadows with a snub nose

And a bottle of half empty wine.

In the darkness of tomorrow, he surrenders to the sorrow

Of self pity that is only killing time.

And he’s pulling back the hammer, staring into the night.

At the neon sign outside that waves a last goodbye.

To a life in motel rooms.

So the cops rolled up in black and whites.

All bullets and badges, flashing in the night.

They put him in a bag, tagged him suicide.

On page thirty eight, he was a couple of lines.

Is that all you can say? Are you sure you can spare the space?

But how can you describe the emptiness inside

Of a life in motel rooms?

So you run and you hide, hide behind the lies,

That make all the front page news.

While he runs and he dies, dies between the lines

Of a life in motel rooms.

©W. Burn 1995