Pocket

(Donald Roeser and John Shirley) The blossoms are falling, Making a white path across the grass Thunderheads are building, your skin tightens And you wait for the flash Across the street, the boys are laughing As they wash each other's cars They turn up the hip-hop White boys Rapping with the black stars Are you in the pocket of the moment in this particular second Screwed into the socket of the moment in this particular second Where time cannot be reckoned Are you in the pocket of the moment Overhead a rumble, it's not thunder, It's a 747 The postman grumbles, it's past eleven The street is sixth It should be seventh You hear the chiming of the ice cream truck Rambling like in a dream I hear your footsteps behind me The sweetest eddy in the stream Are you in the pocket of the moment in this particular second Screwed into the socket of the moment in this particular second Where time cannot be reckoned Are you in the pocket of the moment Are you in the pocket of the moment in this particular second Screwed into the socket of the moment in this particular second Where time cannot be reckoned Are you in the pocket of the moment Are you in the pocket of the moment in this particular second Screwed into the socket of the moment in this particular second Where time cannot be reckoned Are you in the pocket of the moment