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Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The Song of Paul

Meet Paul, an octopus with gall,
 . . . a mollusk in a water-filled cage,
He has eight arms and a number of charms,
 . . . now he's a soccer-world rage.

In the wide world of sports, games are often sold short,
 . . . by bookies to collect on their bets.
But predicting the World Cup, that would be unheard of,
 . . . especially by an innocuous pet.

Eight times in a row, this mollusk seemed to know,
 . . . which team would be the next winner.
However it seems, there was no way to dream,
 . . . which flag he would claim for his dinner.

You might well wonder, how Paul knew from down under,
 . . . was he watching TV in the hall?
In all mollusk history, there's never been such a mystery,
 . . . as the predictions of the Octopus named Paul.

He learned all the teams, through a miasma of steam,
 . . . from Chile to Manchester-United,
But what surpassed all Paul's dreams, was the picking of eight teams,
 . . . for which he'll likely be knighted!

Paul's often asked, how he pulled off the task,
 . . . of picking eight World Cup winners . . .
"That's easily said, rather than end up dead,
 . . . I had to pick the right clam for my dinner!"

So how do you choose, when you just cannot loose?
 . . . no matter what you got to eat seconds.
Or, put like this, why didn't you didn't miss?
 . . . You ate well, howsoever you reckoned!

"I'm not playing for clams," sage Paul began,
 . . . "I'm playing for the ultimate boon!"
Paul stretched one limb, around the nape of his chin,
 . . . and let loose with this octal pantun:

"The things that I seek, are food for my beak,
 . . . Though I'm expert in octal math.
They call me a Buddhist, though I'm really a nudist,
 . . . I practice the eight-fold path.

"You see me here, a prisoner of fear,
 . . . caught in my little glass coracle . . .
If I tried to escape, I'd dry like a crepe,
 . . . my future's in becoming an oracle!"

"I'm locked up in this tub, with glass walls to rub,
 . . . and the TV to watch in the hall . .
Please take some pity and remember this ditty,
 . . . even octopi need something to ball!

“I’ve learned flags to bet, by vessels that drag nets,
 . . . from my home on the sea-floor-bed.
After life on the bottom, one easily gets sodden,
 . . . by flagships that sail overhead.

"Now I don't swig much booze, nor as such do I lose,
 . . . my record speaks for itself.
I picked eight to win, by my direction of swim,
 . . . not bad for a wise little elf!

"Stay for a moment, as I share this small comment,
 . . . about salt that's used in this age . . .
As a creature of the sea, it means nothing to me,
 . . . but you're deficient in salt, as in sage!

Your bodies are weak, your blood has gone meek,
 . . . you lack good salt in your stew.
The salt from the sea, is what nourishes me,
 . . . but you humans are decidedly blue!

"I'd rather eat spines from a dead sea urchine,
 . . . than mess with salt below ground.
Fish without ocean is the blandest of notions,
 . . . but you sprinkle on salt from a mine!

"Whatever you claim, one can't pre-ordain,
 . . . my picks were decidedly easy.
I'll not stay quiet, it was because of my diet,
 . . . on the mollusks that make you so queasy.

"Those with a sea coastline, won most o'-the time,
 . . . Uruguay, Spain and Germany.
The semifinalist eight, have a good fishery take . . .
. . . except for Paraguay, whom Spain ultimately beat.

"The teams that do better, eat food that is wetter,
 . . . than the ones who only eat meat!

"One final thought, unless you claim I was bought,
 . . . why undertake such a task?
Turn out the lights and I'll sing with delight,
 . . . While I put on my cephalopoid mask."

The lights were dimmed down, and the creature of renown,
 . . . with eight arms took up the squeak of a tune:
"Please don't stab me, or eat me like crab meat!"
 . . . . So the keeper heard Paul's octopoid rune.

"Please grant me some solace, in my life as a mollusk,
 . . . I’m an cephalopod that’s looking for fun!
I’m not just a network that’s a clam-oring for bet-work
 . . . Eight for eight is a pretty good run!”

 “Though an oyster's cocaine to my cephalopod fame,
  . . . I’m hungry for that clam metaphor!
 Lift up the hood, but please no more food!
  . . . Put a gal through my octopus door!”

"I'm not being witty when I plead for what's pretty,"
 . . . Our Paul so eloquently sang.
With eight limbs that all played . . . "I need to get laid,"
 . . . He picked out this octo-poid rag:

"I'll pick the next winner if you make me a sinner,
 . . . And dump in an octopus dame!"

This is part I of 'Song of Paul', for Part II go here.

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