It was on a cold & nagging night
that I checked into the Holy Hotel.
The reviews were largely lousy
but it was cheap, so what the Hell?
The hotel owner was a miserable man
with a face so easy to despise.
I asked for bed & breakfast,
he stared into my pale blue eyes.
A second passed, a second more
& then a second three.
Till he opened his moping mouth
& growled “No rest for thee!”.
“Uh-huh, okay, whatever, just
give me my room key!”
I took the “4” card from him &
he repeated “No rest for thee!”.
The repetition grated greatly
& as a rhyme was most lazy.
I flopped into the double bed,
it was soft & quite comfy.
A single spring was poking out
but it was good enough for me.
I closed my eyes & to my surprise
there came a banging on the wall,
accompanied by a growling, grating,
most frustratingly familiar call.
“No rest for thee! No rest I said!
Your wickedness is crystal clear!
You may find refuge down the road
but you won’t be sleeping here!
I see the Devil within you,
I’m sure you hold Satan dear!
Sinner! Slanderer! Sodomite!
And your breath it reeks of beer!”
I yelled back: “Jesus, John & Joseph!
They were all forgiving guys!
Now please kindly shut the *$%@ up,
I’m trying to rest my eyes!”
A pregnant pause was born at that.
I thought ‘Good, leave me be!’
Then heard him bang a barrage back
of “No! No rest for thee!”
“You may believe in a forgiving God
as does most of the Christian nation!
But I tell you forgiveness doesn’t exist
in my most selective interpretation!
No, my God is a smiter! With fire,
fish & frogs you’ll be smote!
You sailed on the “good” ship Sinful,
now there’s a holy hole in your boat!”
I felt too tired for mass debating
with a mad preacher through the wall.
So placed three pillows over my head
to drown out his cantankerous call.
I was only asleep for a minute
(or perhaps a minute or two more),
when I was rudely awoken by pain
& my legs both feeling sore.
The old man brought cane down again,
calling: “I’m sorry, did I stutter?
There’s no rest for thee, wicked one!
Now crawl back to the gutter!”
Now, I am not a violent man.
It takes a lot for me to crack.
But when sanctimonious sadists strike,
it’s time for striking back.
I wrapped my bed sheet around him,
tied it tightly with my belt.
Then gagged him with a flannel
(which unusually was made of felt).
I carried the bounded bundle
then made a big deposit:
dropping him down quite roughly
inside the cleaning closet.
As I returned to bed to rest my head,
troubling thought came without warning:
‘I wonder if he’ll still make me
a fried breakfast in the morning?’.
Copyright © 2015 Philip Craddock. All rights reserved.