Pockets Lyrics by Beautiful South, The

Pockets Lyrics

    (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



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