Stranded Trans-Atlantic Hotel Nearly Famous Blues

Lyrics

Strangers outside my door Strangers outside my door I'm on the fourteenth floor With these strangers outside my door I'm the man in the phone To my son, I'm the man in the phone It's almost morning here But it's still nighttime there And the strangers won't leave me alone I'm not a silver screen For your dumb projection So, sweethearts, go away I'm not a silver screen So, please go away Come back another day Hold on to your hat Hold on to your hair Hold on to your senses Or when you need them They may not be there When they roll the carpet your way Your feet got nothing to do but to fall When the moon is calling you out to play You are helpless to refuse the call They'll have you working the circuit Forty cities in fifty days And it gets harder to shirk it When each dirty city really pays I need some ice, I need a drug I can't face the crowd, so I creep on the rug Turn down the TV, say a little prayer Phone down to reception but there's nobody there So, I try to call home but I can't even speak Though it feels like a year, it's been only one week And another note from no one I know it slides under the door Now, at the moment, this fame thing is only small time But already little things happen that get to me That really get to me, and I know where it's from And I can see where it's going, and, thing is I'm really not sure if it's where I want to go The price of fame is a broken case With your private life spilling out The price of fame is your very soul Put up for sale by a ticket tout The price of fame, anonymity As you stand naked in a public place The forfeit paid by the famous To the fans who made their face And the fans come bearing gifts Streaming bouquets Or a bullet fired from a gun And you're blown away Hold on to your head 'Cause we're almost there Hold on to your everything This should be good, folks, pull up a chair