After years of shopping and materialistic excess
I've noticed our garage is a "mell of a hess."
It's time. I believe, to put things in order
Or risk being labeled a sloth or a hoarder.
I'll start in one corner and sort it all out;
I'm sure it won't pain me to do without
That old tennis racquet from back in the day;
See, I can do it; I'm throwing it away.
If I don't need the racquet, then the balls can go too;
With this kind of progress, I soon will be through.
That chair in the corner has one leg that's missing;
And why keep a rod when I never go fishing?
I'm pitching the cans filled with petrified paint;
I'll do it responsibly so I'm sure not to taint
The water that flows in our local watershed.
Who wants to see hundreds of fish floating dead?
But wait, I digress, and I must stay the course.
Oh, no! Is that Little Jamie's rocking horse?
I never said I'd throw everything away;
And what if I have grandkids one day?
I'm starting to sweat, and I may need a break
From all these decisions I'm having to make.
Who thought all this junk would make me so sentimental?
I'm starting to think . . .
I need a storage pod rental.
