Nobody Home

Pink Floyd 

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

I've got a bag with a toothbrush and comb in

When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in

I got elastic bans keeping my shoes on

Got those swollen hand blues

Got thirteen channels of shit on the TV 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 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

And I've got a string urge to fly

But I 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

But I got fading roots