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