I woke up from a drugged sleep,
Went to work feeling like I had no feet
I speak my mind when my mind goes numb
There's no candy - coating when the sugar runs.
It's unfortunate when benedryl turns me to a zombie shell
But, contrary to my spoken thoughts,
I tend to write pretty well.
So I set my sails on paper trails leading into ink infested wells
Not literally though, I bought a pack of 20 pens on sale.
Caligrapher? I could never be. My mind spits too vapidly.
The metal tips snap back at me, leaving splatters on the tapestry.

I take a bath, I take a bath with a cup of tea
And stupid show on TV, stifling my own laughing
My wife is in the room connected and she's trying to sleep.
I wake her up occasionally to tell her an obsurd thought,
Most of those nights I'm up past three.
I swear she compliments my crazy mind quite perfectly.
She'll read this babble I wrote and tell me I'm silly.
And do you know why? Because I'm silly.

I wouldn't know what to do with a lot money,
I don't want fancy cars or designer meds.
But I'd love a glass of orange juice with some pulp, instead.
I'm not a picky person, but there are a couple things I hate,
Like asking for fresh - squeezed and getting concentrate.

somewhere in hollywood along route 66
stood a cheap motel—
an asylum
for rockstars and their groupies,
artists and and poets and strangelings alike.
the morning only saw its residents,
drunken and drowsy,
and its black-tiled pools as dark as the night;
yet the nights were its prime
when the artists would gather
in the name of music, dance, recklessness.
the syringes would pierce their skin
and the alcohol like ocean waves
washed out the most of them,
and events too unspeakable were the norm.
the motel never attained 5-star ratings,
but it become the playground
for fleeting moments, wild nights,
brewing grounds for creation.
these nights were so loud and colorful,
but only remembered in hazy visions
and muffled sounds.

and so all those nights end here, today:
at the south of The Strip
where some modern, ordinary hotel now stands
once used to be the mess
that the likes of Jim Morrison
and Tom Waits called home.
its guests would have burnt it down,
but they would've wasted their money,
and who has the time anyway?

ladies and gentlemen, the tropicana motel—
a stop over where
wild minds and wild hearts would meet
and eventually go their way,
the place where these legends
of music and madness
came to play.