Nobody Home Metric

I got a little black book with my poems in it
A bag, 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
I got those swollen hand blues
I got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from

I got electric light
I 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 still be nobody home

I've 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
I got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains

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