The Unopened Can I remember when I brought it home, From the store one afternoon. It sat there on the shelf alone, Unpurchased for who knows just how long, That can of "Irish Stew". Now, what the Irish know of stew, This Texan cannot say. What sort of meats are found within, Beef or pork or even chicken, Will wait another day. And wait it did, on MY shelf now, For nearly seven months. And still I would not spoil the wonder, Will there be carrots, peas or cucumber? Awaits some future lunch. Sometimes I'll even sit and eat, A sandwhich or a soup. And gaze long at that foreign label, Whose words to read I am not able. About them only brood. It's not that I don't want to know, What's in that sealed-up can. But only when I cease to dream, About it's fabled mysteries, Will it find my pan.