The Weirdo In the Attic

Though the rest of my house is respectably formal
The occupant of the attic has no notion of normal
She’s lived there as long as I can remember
Wearing snow caps in June and flip flops in December

While the downstairs is neat, decorated with taste
The top floor’s gathered everything that was ever misplaced,
She’s got magazine clippings on every wall
Odd socks, piles of books, a deflated football

And though everyone else eats at regular times
I can smell her fry onions before dawn bells chime
She’ll bake cookies at midnight or at 3 am, pie
(And it smells so delicious I think I might die)

At any odd hour of the night or the day
I’ll hear music or banging or sometimes a neigh
I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of circus
(She really must do it on purpose to irk us)

She forgets things that others consider essential
Like trash day, which she seems to find inconsequential
She misses appointments or comes late wearing slippers
Her hair’s always askew, she has trouble with zippers

Naturally having her there mortifies us
We’ve talked of eviction when her oddity tries us
But somehow we never quite get around to it
At this point I’m convinced that we never will do it

It’s partly because her peach pie is so tasty
And she gives great advice when you’re being too hasty
But mostly this house is so bland and so plain
The weirdo in the attic is what’s keeping us sane

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