My mother's birthday's coming up.
It's really very soon.
I've looked for presents everywhere,
from here until the moon.

With nothing I can give her,
without a thing to lose,
I'll make her perfect present,
as soon as I can choose.

I cannot paint, sculpt or draw,
my writings very poor.
I don't know what to give her,
that isn't in a store.

Then suddenly it hits me,
just like a thunderclap.
I know just what to give her,
I'll make it in a snap.

I take stuff from the kitchen,
when everyone has left.
Since this is for my mother,
I wouldn't call it theft.

I mix it in a bowl,
and set it up to bake,
Then with a "ding!" the gift is done,
a chocolate birthday cake.

Because I let it bake too long,
It's sort of black and charred.
It smells of ashes and of smoke,
and biting it is hard.

But since it is the thought that counts,
Although it's hard to lift,
I think you will agree with me,
it is the perfect gift.