Pockets The Beautiful South

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[Verse 1]
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

[Chorus 1]
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...

[Verse 2]
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