hotel hotel

Heartbreak Hotel

I once stayed at your heartbreak hotel,
drinking vodka martinis and
listening to the hum of the highway.
The tires sing of Romance in one horse towns,
Where Barney carries one bullet in his pocket,
and fumbles with the heartstrings,
of the waitress at the dinner.
The special is always meatloaf,
letting your freak flag fly,
every Thursday during happy hour,
the madman attempting karaoke.
Like the Godzilla worshipping businessman,
who clips coupons from the Sunday paper,
and pretends that he is Gary Cooper.
We all bite into the foreign object,
hiding in the cheeseburger,
between the slices of pickle.
You practice your special moves,
the ones you learned from Scooby Doo,
two jars of jalapenos,
one at a time.