“Beware,” the old man said to me, as I checked into his hotel.
“When the clock strikes 14,
This place can get mean,
Like a night rising up from dark hell
The demons descend,
To signal your end.
The moment the clocks strikes that bell.
The sky blackens like coal.
It will rip out your soul.
And there won’t be a ear you can tell.”
I look at his face,
and whispered with grace,
that I won’t listen out for the bell.
“No clock strikes 14,
and by that I mean,
there are only 12 hours in each day.”
He said, “You’re deluded,
And breakfast’s included.
Now how are you wanting to pay?”