This is what it is to write

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.