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Текст песни The Beautiful South - Pockets

The Beautiful South - Pockets слова песни




(Heaton/Rotheray)Here comes PocketsHis trousers hold a thousand deadly sinsThe maddest things we ever found in binsHe clutches them and looks at you and grinsHere comes PocketsThe children wary of what they may containThe linen may have changed, the contents sameA trouser-treasure island with no nameAnd socially at the platform that the timetable forgotPicking up used tickets in a station of have-notsWhen you`re on that train of thoughtYou pass some pretty funky stopsWhen you`re on that train of thoughtYou pass some pretty funky stopsThat`s the Pocket, let him beThat`s the Pocket, let him beHere comes PocketsPicking up the things we cannot seeA bicycle, a dame, a Christmas treeThings of no value to you or meHere comes PocketsReduced through history to just a crawlHistory turns the tall into the smallBut natural born trawlers love to trawlAnd the guitar of his dreams hangs upon some wallOr laying underneath the staircase in a hallWe can carry dreams but we can`t hold them allThat`s why we learn the Blues before we actually fallThat`s the Pocket, let him beThat`s the Pocket, let him beAnd he`s clinging on to hopeLike the oak tree to the gale`Cause finding one love letter in a sky high jumble saleIs one single reason, why the Pocket will not fail

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