The Genie

Your wish is my command, or so the genie said, as she wriggled from her lamp, starting with her head. I knew she had more to speak as she hovered there, for she furrowed up her brow and fixed me with a glare. You know, she said, it’s tiresome letting you mortals pick, and producing what you want is enough to make me sick. You think you can rub and rub again and from the lamp I’ll arise and without a word of question present you with your prize. But what it is you’ll ask for will be money or power or fame, never do you make a request for the poor, the war torn the lame. So if you please, do excuse me I’m returning now to my lamp, and don’t expect me to return until your wishes you revamp. So I sat all alone and pondered the harsh words she had spoken, and I will not divulge my plan for fear of promises broken. But I’ll pick up that bottle and rub and ask for alms for the poor, and if she smiles on my request for mankind I’ll wish even more.