Lyrics - Pocket by Beautiful South

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 the
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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