Beautiful South The Pockets Lyrics

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