Got a little black book with my poems in,
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 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 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, fly to, fly to, fly to, fly to)
Oooooh, babe, when I pick up the phone,
There's still nobody home
I got a pair of Gohill's boots,
And I got fading roots