Has anyone seen my wallet?
I left it on the roof of my car
And drove my Christmas drive.
If you find it you can keep it:
I'm moving on.
Driving license,
A ton of reciepts,
Ten Euro note,
Maybe eight pounds cash
And a book of stamps.
Mostly a reminder of a dreary life,
Heavy, not with cash but ****** expenditure.

Go ahead, steal my ID,
Who'd want to be me?
Not I!
But, drawing a parallel
Between my wallet and I,
Deep in a quagmire,
Weathered by winter,
Waiting to be found.
Not very subtle I know,
But here's my rebuttal:
A seemingly tough exterior,
Vulnerable to stormy weather,
Stitching that will fail the test of time,
Spilling out its contents,
Laying bear all it once held in.

But if not found presently,
Maybe in time it will be,
And be of some passing interest
To some far off future finder,
Who'll wonder for a second who I was,
And ask, "how did it get lost?"
And "what became of those two children in the photo?"
And "what the hell was diesel anyway?"

He's not been well,
He's experienced a living Hell,
But he's got guts
And, over time, he's realised
It's not him that's ******* nuts.

The walk I wasn't on
Was, by all accounts, a good one,
I wish I'd been there
Because you were there,
But I bet you had nothing to say,
Probably distracted by nature's display,
Studying the forest's floor
Daring to be the bore
Looking up, occasionally
At the forest's canopy.

Scuffed brown shoes
With laces as long as your arms
Skip and scrape upon the cobbles
Skimming over tiny puddles
Reflecting a hundred suns
Dipping in and out of a thousand clouds.

"Don't be political" the Maestro said,
"It don't age well and it sure as Hell don't sell"
So I gave it up,
Called a by-election on my insurrection,
Lost my deposit
But couldn't give a ****.
Now I switch off the news
To focus on my muse:
The little things.
Yep, meditating on the minutiae
Is where it's at,
"Embrace the boring"
The Maestro added
"Politics will leave them snoring".
So here's to the mundane,
The housing estates
Where cars clog the streets,
The lunch deal brigade
Staring at the sandwiches,
The workplace kitchen
Where hygiene standards vanish:
A land called Mundanity,
Where the seemingly sane
Are all insane.

I'd like to pepper my poems
With referenes to Greek mythology
Or sprinkle a little Norse legend
Throughout my stanzas.
But, alas, it will never be:
For, you see,
I utterly failed my Literature GCSE.