Nobody Home

I got a little black book with my poems in.
Got a bag, got a toothbrush and a comb.
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone.
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on.
Got those swollen hands blues.
Got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from.
I got electric light,
And I got second sight.
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 got the obligatory Hendrix perm,
And the inevitable pinhole burns,
All down the front of my favorite satin shirt.
I got nicotine stains on my fingers.
I got a silver spoon on a chain.
Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains.
I've got wild, staring eyes.
And I got a strong urge to fly,
But I got nowhere to fly to (-- fly to... fly to... fly to...).
Ooooo Babe,
When I pick up the phone,
There's still nobody home.

I got a pair of Gohill boots,
And I got fading roots.