Ivan has searched and he has searched
But no, he cannot find his keys
They’re not outside in the garden,
Or in the bird’s nest up in the trees.
They’ve not been stolen by the cat
Or the next door neighbour’s dog’s fleas
And certainly, although he’s checked twice
They’re not in the fridge with the cheese.
They’re not in the saucer, or the tea cup
Or in the old black coffee pot
They’re not sizzling in the frying pan,
Or on the lid of a saucepan that’s hot.
They’re not buried on a beach somewhere
On a map that says “X marks the spot”
And they’re not hiding in the bookshelf
In a story with a really bad plot
They’re not hiding in the wardrobe
With his shoes, his hat and his coat
They’re not in a wet frog filled pond
Or in the pointy end of the boat
They’re not sitting in a farmer’s yard
About to be fed to the goat.
They’re not in the hand of the postman
In a lovely white folded up note.
They’re not sitting in a pirate’s hat
Upturned on the sea and afloat.
It turns out they are, where they’ve have always been
In the pocket of his coat.