|
(heaton/rotheray) |
|
Here comes pockets |
|
His trousers hold a thousand deadly sins |
|
The maddest things we ever found in bins |
|
He clutches them and looks at you and grins |
|
Here comes pockets |
|
The children wary of what they may contain |
|
The linen may have changed, the contents same |
|
A trouser-treasure island with no name |
|
And socially at the platform that the timetable forgot |
|
Picking up used tickets in a station of have-nots |
|
When you're on that train of thought |
|
You pass some pretty funky stops |
|
When you're on that train of thought |
|
You pass some pretty funky stops |
|
That's the pocket, let him be |
|
That's the pocket, let him be |
|
Here comes pockets |
|
Picking up the things we cannot see |
|
A bicycle, a dame, a christmas tree |
|
Things of no value to you or me |
|
Here comes pockets |
|
Reduced through history to just a crawl |
|
History turns the tall into the small |
|
But natural born trawlers love to trawl |
|
And the guitar of his dreams hangs upon some wall |
|
Or laying underneath the staircase in a hall |
|
We can carry dreams but we can't hold them all |
|
That's why we learn the blues before we actually fall |
|
That's the pocket, let him be |
|
That's the pocket, let him be |
|
And he's clinging on to hope |
|
Like the oak tree to the gale |
|
'cause finding one love letter in a sky high jumble sale |
|
Is one single reason, why the pocket will not fail |
