The key at the bottom of the hill,
Shone in the dark like an electric eel,
People walked past it like it wasn't there,
The wind blew it into the empty air,
It shot up past the clouds fast and heavy,
The next day it shot back down past the clouds and into the grass,
The grass was frosty and white so the key was cold,
The leaves dropped over the key,
And it was never seen again,
But three years later the key was found again,
In an old shack beside the Thames,
The other day it was lost,
Maybe in the Thames or maybe back on the grass.