The Bright Side

The attic where we store

Old boxes and some more

Is rather dark and rather dry,

Lit only by a firefly.

You might describe it gross and musty,

Worn with filth and old and dusty,

Disgusting and kind of fusty,

Cold and bleak and black and frosty,

But I describe it nice and bright,

Full of luminous white light,

Attractive, appealing, free of despair

While a carefree mood hangs in the air,

Where I can stay and express my thoughts,

Unwind my day tied up in knots,

Lift my chin and spread my wings,

Just look at the bright side of things.