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.
