At the very edge of the world,
In a little town called Cockermouth,
She handed me two odd keys,
One was for my chamber and,
Another for the front door,
To this small decrepit motel,
With uneven creaky floorboards,
Under a worn-out grey carpet.
Floors and walls were paper-thin,
Outside noises came uninterrupted,
The crowd went about its business,
To the balcony, to smoke, and back.
The snoring woman downstairs,
Felt like she was lying next to me.
And every step made by the old man,
Upstairs, bumping against appliances,
On his endless trips to the bathroom,
Every little sound therein audible,
Intensified by the unpolluted silence,
Of a night in the middle of nowhere.
I wonder if they will all be honest,
Every patron at the motel that night,
When asked frankly at breakfast.
Have they had a goodnight sleep?
Did they move furniture around,
For protection, very well knowing,
The only Black person in town was,
Perhaps plotting mutiny next door.
