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 keepin 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 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.
Ooooh, Babe when I pick up the phone

There's still nobody home.