Nobody Home

I’ve got a little black book with my poems in 

I’ve 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. 
Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. 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 I’ve got the inevitable pinhole burns 
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt 
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers 
I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain 
I’ve got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains 
I’ve got wild staring eyes 
I’ve got a strong urge to fly 
But I’ve got nowhere to fly to 
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone 
There’s still nobody home 
I’ve got a pair of Gohills boots 
And I’ve got fading roots.


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