Ivan has lost his keys

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.

Copyright © 2017 Grant Fenton – All Rights Reserved

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