The day he leaves his boxy home, is the day that he shall die.
A single breath is all he takes, yet at his passing none will cry.
He is certainly no writer; no chapters in his book,
But foundering in darkness, he'll help you take a look.
He'll help you on your birthday; though his present you'll destroy,
And your parents might have said, don't treat him as a toy.
Just one task is asked of him, and yet he goes on strike?
Safety first we all demand, no matter what he'd like.
What is he?
