Stranded Trans-Atlantic Hotel Nearly Famous Blues

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