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 keepin' my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues
I got a million channels of shit on the TV to choose from
I've got electric light

And I've got second sight
I 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 receding hair and the inevitable pinhole burns
Now all down the front of my favorite satin shirt
I've got caffeine stains on my molars, I've got a plastic spoon on a chain
Got an old Trace Elliot to prop up my mortal remains

I've got wild staring eyes
And I've got a strong urge to fly, but I got nowhere to fly to
Ooh, babe when I pick up the phone there is still nobody home