I’ve got a little black blog with my poems in
I’ve got a bag with a toothbrush and a mobile 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
I’ve got thirteen sites of shit on the web 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 rasta perm
And the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite sweat-shirt
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers
I’ve got a silver box with my drugs in
I’ve 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 …
Ooooh babe when I pick up the phone
There’s still nobody home
I’ve got a pair of Vans shoes
But I’ve got fading roots …
