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I'm a porter and a night clerk at the old Hot Rod Hotel |
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I clean and scrub the lobby down and thirty-one rooms as well |
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I wax and shine their boots and shoes |
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I brush down their crinkly clothes |
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And I meet the buses and trains and I show you to your door |
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Bell-bottom pants brought two boys in at six-fourteen last night |
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Two girls checked in at ten-oh-two and I flipped on the light |
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The lamrod's wife looks in their doors and finds one terrible sight |
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Those boys and girls got bawled up in their doors and rooms that night |
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A bloody flood could never mess these rooms up any worse |
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It looked like Moe had used this room to grease and breed a horse |
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Old gum and hairs and sticky rags, old bottles on the floors |
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Gobs of spit and condom rubbers on the windows, walls, and doors |
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The lammy tried to make me clean out that crappy mess |
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Or else he'd fire me off my job and let me starve to death |
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I laid aside my polish rag and I downed my dusting pan |
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And I've not seen the old Hot Rod nor that old town since then |