The Don't Drink Bees Blog

There’s a monster in my attic
With a flair for the dramatic
Through every trunk placed in storage
She will forage and she’ll forage
Then she’ll recategorize
The items that she finds

Old clothing goes in wardrobe
Old letters filed as scripts
Curios are housed in props
Along with awful gifts

Old lamps are for lighting
Old furniture’s on sets
Stuffed toys are understudies
For the dolls who cry and wet

Old curtains are, well, curtains
For the stage where she performs
It’s such a thing of beauty
To see the way that she transforms

Our old junk into fine art
I once saw a play
In which a gaudy orange sweater
Symbolized a brighter day

I cannot count the times
That monster’s scenes have moved me
It’s so nice to have good theater
In your house, completely free

But sadly my way, way off
Broadway days may soon be ending
Our monster has an offer
For way on, on Broadway pending

Just think what she’ll be able to do
With real props, actors, and a crew
Her imagination can soar beyond
The discarded boxes that she found
In our cluttered, little attic
Too small a stage for a monster
So talented and dramatic