Pockets

(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