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,
What surpassed Paul's dreams, was picking 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'll choose the right clam for my dinner!"
How should one choose, if eight cannot loose
. . . no matter how one's bribed for seconds.
Put it like this, why didn't you miss?
. . . Yet ate well, however 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 fins from a dead sea urchin,
. . . 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.
Not remain quiet, it was because of my diet,
. . . on the mollusks that make you so queasy.
The semifinalist eight, have a good fishery take . . .
. . . the losers ubiquitously ate meat.
Eaters of fish got achieved dreams from their dish,
. . . Flat fins beat out four feet!
"Flesh from sea water beats mammals from slaughter,
. . . the lesson you take from this rhyme,
You get closer to God when you let go of sod,
. . . . Go enrich yourself with wet brine.
"One final thought, unless you claim I was bought,
. . . education's such a daunting task:
Turn out the lights and I'll sing with delight,
. . . Stories behind my cephalopod mask."
The lights dimmed down, 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 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 clamoring 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 octopoid 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.
