This is a sequel to my poem Lonely Street
|There's a place down in Lonely Street|
That is known as the Death Hotel,
Only downtrodden loners go there
Those whose lives are not going well.
It's a place where lovelorn losers dwell
In a suburb, you only move down into,
Nobody on the way up moves there
And no-one ever looks up to you.
A place where people go to die
When there are no more chances left,
Those who now have no true hope
For whom lift is completely bereft.
Those who are fit, healthy, and happy
Would never go there while still alive,
Most of those who end up there
Have little hope they can survive.
Death Hotel is on Lonely Street
A place where star-crossed lovers go,
To see out their final painful years
A place which winners will never know.
Death Hotel is often called the pits
Because it's dirty, dark, and dingy,
A place for those now out of chances
To whom Lady Luck was always stingy.
Death Hotel is for the downtrodden
Those with no reason left to live,
Those whose life has ever been down
Who now have nothing left to give.
© Copyright 2023 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia