[basil ransome-davies]

Though a form of marine life, poor Paul
Was scarcely sea-dwelling at all.
His abode was a tank till mortality sank
The formerly buoyant clairvoyant.

For the FIFA World Cup he was news,
Predicting who'd win and who'd lose.
He was right about eight, a commendable rate –
And perhaps a hubristic statistic.

A tentacled oracle he,
Replete with the lore of the sea;
Yet for all our good wishes he sleeps with the fishes,
A merely archival survival.

I may watch several World Cups to come.
I may even get pleasure from some.
But I know that I'll dream with nostalgic esteem
Of the days when the scoreline was Pauline.