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