| He has one that locks the office
|
| And there’s one that starts the big fine car
|
| That finds its way home
|
| He has two that fit the front-door locks
|
| And one that fits the mailbox
|
| But inside there’s just a spider and
|
| He scuttles to the corner with his mysteries
|
| Cause he’s frightened by the jangle of his pocketful of keys
|
| He has one that fits the cashbox
|
| And one unlocks the liquor bar
|
| And it finds its way down
|
| He has one that fits the study door
|
| And one unlocks the desk drawer
|
| And he touches all his letters and
|
| He sorts them all according to his memories
|
| To the icy clank and tinkle of his pocketful of keys
|
| There’s a padlock on the garden gate
|
| There’s a padlock on the hunting lodge
|
| There’s a padlock on the his-and-her garage
|
| Amen
|
| He was a somber man
|
| Not inclined to telling her his mind
|
| And there’s one that locks the pain up
|
| And one that keeps the hot tears in
|
| But they find their way out
|
| He has one that locks the best gin up
|
| And one that keeps his chin up
|
| And in shaky situations he
|
| Has learned a way by which he even locks his knees
|
| And he holds himself together with his pocketful of keys
|
| Yes, he holds himself together with his keys |