I've got a little black book with my poems in.
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in.
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in.
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on.
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from.
I've got electric light
And I've got second sight.
I've got amazing
Powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home.
I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favorite satin shirt.
I've got nicotine stains on my fingers,
I've got a silver spoon on a chain.
I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains.
I've got wild staring eyes
And I've got a strong urge to fly
But I've got nowhere to fly to,
(fly to, fly to, fly to)
when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home.
I've got a pair of Gohill's boots
But I got fading roots.