| If my friends could see me now, driving round just like a film star, |
| In a chauffeur driven jam jar, they would laugh. |
| They would all be saying that it’s not really me, |
| They would all be asking who I’m trying to be. |
| If my friends could see me now, |
| Looking out my hotel window, |
| Dressed in satin strides and two-tone daisy roots, |
| If my friends could see me now I know they would smile. |
| Sitting in my hotel, hiding from the dramas of this great big world, |
| Seven stories high, looking at the world go by-y. |
| Sitting in my hotel room, thinking about the countryside and sunny days in June. |
| Trying to hide the gloom, sitting in my hotel room. |
| If my friends could see me now, dressing up in my bow-tie, |
| Prancing round the room like some outrageous poove, |
| They would tell me that I’m just being used |
| They would ask me what I’m trying to prove. |
| They would see me in my hotel, |
| Watching late shows till the morning, |
| Writing songs for old time vaudeville revues. |
| All my friends would ask me what it’s all leading to. |
| Sitting in my hotel, looking through the window at the people in the street, |
| Seven stories high looking at the world go by, |
| Sitting in my hotel, looking at the world outside. |
| If my friends could see me now they would try to understand me, |
| They would ask me what on earth I’m trying to prove. |
| All my friends would ask me what it’s all leading to. |