I woke up on a shotgun floor.
I did not know where I had been;
My head was pointed at the door.
I could not move -- too scared and sore --
O battered brain! O black eye'd spin! --
I lay upon that shotgun floor.
And then I heard some water pour
And smelled the day old rice and beans;
I leaned against the shuttered door.
I heard a locomotive roar
As footsteps pounded through the den --
Good Lord this creaky shotgun floor!
I saw three figures, maybe four,
And then a voice said, "cleanse your sin,
But first you fix my broken door!"
A-stumblin' down the Bywater Shore
I ate and drank from an ol' beat tin:
God put me on that shotgun floor
To shoot me through another door.
Adding your comment:
Having seen an actual "shotgun house" or two while I lived in Louisiana, this piece was immediately accessible and palpable to the touch, dear Scribe. 
