There’s lots and lots of stuff,
All piled within this space,
It all looks rather jumbled,
Though most things do have a place.

Some is packed in boxes,
Some of it is bagged,
And for basic thermal reasons,
The tank and pipes are lagged.

It’s always rather chilly,
Stacking Christmas bits away,
And hot when getting bags,
To pack our clothes for holiday.

The rafters hold the roof up,
Plus the junk I want to keep,
In this strange and eerie place,
Only feet from where I sleep.

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(Other rhymes are available at musing75.com/rhymes)