Nobody Home

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 the bone in

I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on

Got those swollen hand blues

I got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from

I've got electric light

And I've got second sight

I've 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've got nowhere to fly to

Ooh, babe, when I pick up the phone

There's still nobody home

I've got a pair Gohills boots

And I've got fading roots