(A Slapstick Satire)

Jonathan Ihonde, the legend, the man,

Sang of Hotel de Jordan with a mic in his hand.

A voice so smooth, like a buttered yam slice,

Yet his tales of that hotel? Ah—not very nice!

He crooned of a place where dreams go to die,

Where the towels smell like yesterday’s fry.

Where the pillows are stuffed with secrets and dust,

And the toilet? A gamble—you flush at your own trust!

“Come stay the night!” the receptionist beams,

With a smile so fake, it peels at the seams.

But step through the doors—your fate is sealed!

Mosquitoes line up like bouncers on the field!

The ceiling fan spins—but only when it feels bold.

The tap water? Chunky, mysterious, and cold.

Room service knocks when you’re deep in a dream,

And the waiter brings soup with a side of scream!

The AC works—if you kick it just right,

But beware! It might fall in the middle of night!

The bed makes sounds that beds shouldn’t make,

And the cockroach? It walks like it owns the estate.

A rat in the hallway stops and stares,

Holding a menu—wait, is that a waiter’s hat it wears?!

I call for help, but the manager’s gone,

Left a sign: “Back in five… or maybe at dawn.”

Jonathan warned us, but did we hear?

No, we booked a room and shed many a tear.

Now we sit, swatting flies and regret,

Trapped in Hotel de Jordan—a night we won’t forget!

So next time you hear Jonathan’s tune,

Book a tent, my friend—not a room!