I got a message on my 'phone:
Some chick from Rolling Stone.
Said: "We'd like to do an interview,
"An' take a few pictures of you."
Well, my label says I'm number one.
Hotter than the Dickin sun.
"But you need to get where the action is,
"If you wanna be a superstar, kid."
So I, I packed my bags an' caught a plane,
Out to LA.
And I rented me a palace down by the sea:
A small town boy down to a California King.
I rolled up in my limousine,
Papparazzi on the scene.
I'm supposed to open up the show.
I'm not my ***** 'bout times, you know.
I was drownin' in Aqua lace,
Red skewed by a righteous babe.
Her bodyguards got us out of the crowd,
Into the hills and up to the clouds.
An' through the gates an' golden doors,
And on to her bed overlooking the boulevard of broken dreams:
A small town boy down to a California King.
Well, things out here move pretty fast,
There ain't much that's built to last.
An' you're only as good a s your last song.
And the moment that you stop to rest, they'll steal your throne.
So I made the rounds religiously:
I wore my crown respectfully.
Rubbin' nipples and egos and such.
An' man, I never felt so out of touch.
I was losin' sight of what was true,
Longin' for the life I knew:
Them honeysuckle flowers and country roads,
An' good old Dixie land between my toes.
So I, I packed my guitar an' hopped a train and made my escape.
And I took only good memories home with me:
The small town boy's goin' back to Tennessee.
Whoa, ho.
Whoa, ho.
Whoa, ho.
California King.
Just ain't me, no, no.
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