Keyring keys of ev’ry shape,
With some for deadbolts, some for latches –
Split-ring lodgers, each one waiting
For the only hole that matches.
Take them off the circlet, though,
And whether iron, brass or chrome,
They’re all alone and naked
With no hint to tell us where is home.
Somewhere, a patient lock is waiting,
But some keys hate to be tied down –
And keys that leave the ring of safety
Rarely ever will be found.
A life of orphan-hood they chose,
Who never will be collared through their bows.