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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...).
When I pick up the phone,
There's still nobody home.
I got a pair of Gohill boots,
And I got fading roots.