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.