The Genie

I rub an old lamp and a genie appears!
He thanks me and says it’s been thousands of years
Since the last time a master had let him come out.
He’ll grant me three wishes, he says, but I doubt
That it’s wise to say yes to his offer in light
Of the time that he spent in the lamp oh so tight.
Just why did his previous master not pass
Off the lamp to another? It could be, alas,
That the master was selfish and couldn’t care less
If nobody else had a turn to possess
Such a treasure. I fear that the truth may be worse:
The genie is less of a gift than a curse,
For whether malicious or simply inept,
He failed to ensure that his promise was kept,
So the master was not very well satisfied.
It even could be that the master had died
From the genie’s arrangements before there could be
A chance at a handoff. That risk’s not for me!
I say to the genie, “I’m glad you feel good,
But as for those wishes, I don’t think I should.”