| I've 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. | |
| I got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from. | |
| I've got electric light | |
| And I've got second sight, | |
| I 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. | |
| 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 got nowhere to fly to. | |
| Ooooh, babe, when I pick up the phone | |
| (Surprise, surprise, surprise) | |
| There's still nobody home. | |
| I've got a pair of Gohills boots | |
| And I've got fading roots. |