The Man In The Hotel Room

(Chris Cornell)

The dealer always collects his debts

a ring heard in the spider reams of spring.

A thought to his black mare, but this strange glare—

The dealer always collects his debts

A ring, a thimble, a scream.

suitor and midwife, Chinese eyes

A thought to his black mare, but here this strange glare—

scarlet in spring; a ring borne 

In the siren song

of a hot, empty spring.