Your gift is there inside the box,
The one without, chains and locks,
But before the lid you lift with care
Let me warn you what might be in there:
A cake with candles counting twenty three,
Lit or not you’ll have to see;
Or
Lucy’s rib in a relic case
Mislabeled “Adam’ across its base;
Or
Energy dark and quite unseen
With stories to tell about where it’s been;
Or
A stick; a pole; a new dimension,
Your Flatland’s break from convention;
Now, in the box are one and all;
Each awaits your earnest call,
So lift the lid, go ahead,
And I hope to hell the cat’s not dead.