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