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…).
When I pick up the phone,
There’s still nobody home.
I got a pair of Gohill boots,
And I got fading roots.