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.