The attic of my mind is a bit of a cobwebby place;
It's a dirty and dusty and musty;
A sort of out-of-the-way dim little space.

Spiders and crickets and bats are never here;
I don't even worry that creepy-creep feeling,
At least I've not seen them......this late in the year!

Bending round gadgets, twists and stairwells,
I peer into corners over black-tar stained
Stacked high boxes and barrels.

There's a basket and a bin, and a baseball bat.
An old leather glove,
And a gnarled Bee newspaper hat.

New mustbe's and could-have-been's piled over there,
On top of old did's and recent didnot's.
And under the rug are the keys without locks.

You can'ts to the rafters green with shame aphids,
Dripping with yells from an old Davis coach;
Crooked and cozy with snubs of all kinds in snob-happy places.

As I look over fields of fabulous forget-me-not trash,
My mind goes sleep-sleepy with a far off signal;
Like poppies in Oz, my brain starts to crash.

Gasping and choking all out of breath, it's now time to scram,
To a stale not spot. A place without baggage,
Or bundles or boxes; wickets all bent and sticky with jam.

"Now see here!" I say, in a very small angry voice, "I need soon
A place where people will want me. Free to say yes,
Or no as I want to, free from "see here" and bursted balloons.

I'll go as I came, I'll back right out of here, to wherever I want
To conquer some fear. Murky and mucky this old rotten stuff,
Is best left in mountains right up to the roof.

The attic of my mind is a bit of a cobwebby place;
All stacked up with stuff I'd rather forget,
If it wasn't for grace.

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