It's a bland looking place on the outskirts of town,
the sign is missing letters and the building's run down.
Sitting at the corner of an old gravel road,
a rugged, not too friendly looking distant abode.

Built back in the 60s on a small, ***** tract,
half the deadbolts don't work and the front window's cracked.
It's a glorified shack, only seventeen rooms,
And its thick with the grey fog of cigarette fumes.

But far from abandoned, there are plenty of guests,
they drive in from the north and fly out from the west.
From the old to the young, to the meek and the great,
they all find their place on this darkened estate.

It's played host to rock stars, to artists and writers,
corrupt politicians and heavyweight fighters.
They travel for miles to this little piece of hell,
the rusty old spot called the Sampson motel.

In the small cluttered office just beyond the wood door,
you'll find the manager Wayne, he lost an eye in the war.
He's a bit rough and tumble and he's got skin cold as ice,
but if you show him respect you might get a good price.

The ice machine's broken and the power cord's frayed,
so little of elegance or fancy displayed.
The plumbing is awful and the wall paint is peeling,
and most of the souls that you'll find here are reeling.

Housekeeping doesn't do much, there's only one maid.
She smokes a cigar and wears her hair up in braids.
She won't leave you a mint or turn down the sheet,
But if you mistreat her, you're out on the street.

It's the #1 choice if you don't want to be found,
as long as you don't mind the trash on the ground.
Folks aren't too friendly here so if you come stay
Mind your own business and go about your own way.

Guests come and they go almost quick as flash,
And you can be certain they always pay cash.
In darkness they'll be, transfixed by the spell
of the rusty old spot called the Sampson motel.