As I rummaged through an attic on an afternoon one day,
     I found treasures that so long ago, my folks had stored away.
     There were pictures of the family, aunts and uncles, cousins too,
     And some keepsakes from my childhood days, which now have long been through.

But there's another treasure trove we carry everywhere.
     It's filled with everything we do and all the things we share.
     Each of us has memories golden. There are treasures vast to find,
     If we take the time to rummage through the attic of our mind.

Old Tom was slowing down a bit; the years were slipping by.
     He feared the boss might fire him from his job.
     He used to be the Top Cat in the Mousers' Hall of Fame,
     A feline standing miles above the mob.

But now he isn't fast enough to catch the smallest mouse.
     His running days have had their date with death.
     He now relies on treachery. He'll down a hunk of cheese
     And wait beside the hole with baited breath.

Some folks are pianissimo; they're quiet as a mouse,
     While others are vivace as they race around the house.
     Some are mezzo forte as they bellow all the stronger,
     While some folks are fermata. These you hold a little longer.

I must be getting pretty old; my teeth are falling out,
     And time is passing faster now, that's true without a doubt.
          Some friends will not be with me as I enter this fine age,
               While others may play starring roles on life's next thrilling stage.
                    I guess I've found most everything a guy could ever seek,
                         But life goes on, and I'll be brave, for I'll be six next week.

When the story of your life is written down in history's book,
     Will there be a lot to read, or will it have an empty look?
     For some, the story tells of all the riches they have made,
     While some have made their marks by giving others love and aid.

A mother's children tell a tale about her earthly time.
     The poet with his art may be remembered for his rhyme.
     Though some tales may be simple, or the sayings of a sage,
     The saddest tale of all is when your life's an empty page.

You have an answering machine, you have call-waiting, too.
     You're fooled by all those fancy names. That isn't what they do.
     Your dumb machine won't answer any question that I ask.
     Instead, it questions what I want. That really is its task.

Call-waiting interrupts me, just time and time again.
     Call-interrupting is the name that makes its function plain.
     My service is more basic, and I can clearly state,
     I truly have call-waiting. You call. It's busy. Wait!

A dozen dancing hippos once appeared upon the stage.
     They danced the Hootchie-Kootchie for the crowd.
     The audience applauded. They were really quite the rage.
     They did most everything the law allowed.

But as they synchronized a leap, they gave us quite a fright.
     The floor, it cracked and buckled 'neath that crew.
     Though none of them was injured, they danced their last that night;
     It was just a stage that they were going through.

I hear the voice of Yesterday calling out its plea,
     And saying, "Won't you please come back and play?
     We had such fascinating times, back in Used-To-Be.
     I hope that you'll come back with me to stay."

I hear Tomorrow's voice call out, Just wait until you see
     The many things I have in store for you.
     My mysteries await you in the time that is to be.
     My promises are never, never few."

Today, Today, what do you say? But answer comes there none,
     For there's no cause at all for her to speak.
     Today and I walk hand in hand, through toil and love and fun.
     Today's the prize in life that we all seek.

Why don't we celebrate Scroogemas or sing a Scroogemas tune?
     Scroogemas comes around each year the twenty-fifth of June.

It's a day to be grumpy and grouchy, irascible as well.
     So how did Scroogemas come around? Its origin, I'll tell.

It's a day for uncelebration. It's a day to grumble and fret,
     For it's as far from Christmas as you can ever get.

Fifth row from the orchestra, about the third seat in,
     He watched as she performed before the lights.
     She looked so sweet and fragile in her angel dress of white.
     It seemed that she was destined for great heights.

He told her that he loved her as he bid her take her place.
     He found it hard to know just what to say.
     It was her first big opening; it was her first big show.
     His little girl was in the Christmas play.

Raindrops gently falling on a painted old tin roof
     Come gently creeping back into my brain -
          Hours spent with childhood pals, just waiting for the sun,
               And listening to the pitter-pat of rain.

It's a dreary, dreary day when your world has turned to gray,
     And you're sad because you feel so all alone.
     It's a black and weary night when there's nothing good in sight,
     And you feel there's not a friend to call your own.

It's a bright and cheery time when your fortune starts to climb,
     And your skies that once were gray have turned to blue -
     When you meet at every turning those old friends for whom you're yearning,
     And those golden moments come within your view.

Lady Luck may ply her art, and Dame Fate may play a part,
     But there's something even more to understand.
     Luck and Fate may sketch the page as you go upon Life's stage,
     But the crayons for each day are in your hand.

Goats, goats have hairy coats and horns they use for buttin'.
     They got a smell. I think that ... well, that smell ain't good for nuttin'.
     Goats'll eat most anything, at least so I've heard tell,
     Like rusty cans and pots and pans and petticoats as well.

Mary had her little lamb, and Dick and Jane had Spot,
     But Mama gave me this here goat, and it sure smells a lot.
     I'd rather have a chicken or a yummy root beer float.
     Why, I'll take anything you got for this here stinkin' goat!