Theseus, bright lad, thought he’d be slick—
He handed his dad a jar, said, “Pick
One wish, one hope, or maybe two!”
His dad just sighed, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Pandora’s pithos! Great for Dad’s shelf,
A jar of curses... or good luck itself!
But here’s the real gift, I swear it’s true—
White sails, Dad, when I’m coming to you!”

Off Theseus went, proud as a goat,
Without a thought, a plan, or note.
Sails? Who’d remember that part of the deal?
He returned in black like it wasn’t a big deal.

Old Aegeus squinted, peered out to sea—
“What’s that son of mine doing to me?!”
Saw those black sails and the jar in hand,
And took a dive, just like he’d planned.

So now we call it the Aegean Sea,
Thanks to one kid’s gift and faulty memory.
And Theseus? He shrugged, gave a clueless stare—
“That pithos gift? Yeah, it’s heirloom fare."