Wrapped in a present I sit,
This box is dark and cold
Trapped in this present I sit
I can’t seem to pry my legs out of the box.
The paper smells crisp and old
I’m trapped here, with my eyes watching
Waiting for the crinkly tear of freedom
I can hear it
Almost see it
Far away,
From this box.
This box has a metal handle
That twists and plays music
Joyous huh,
Not when you’re standing on it like a...