The Wily Octopus
Among the North Pacific type,
We're intellects like Michael Stipe—
Why, even homicide is known,
Though no 'Puss ever squirts his own.
The suicide you've read about
Was only that of Brother Trout,
Who yammered like a yentacle
When trapped inside my tentacle—
I really would have let him go
Except he was a Sea-rainbow,
And they and we don't get along
Since they are weak and we are strong.
It's not as if he liked his life
(He couldn't bear his Jelly wife),
And rainbows are the only breed
Who criticize the 'Puss for greed!
The very thought! As if his brain
Had any inkling of our pain
Or even tried to sympathize
With us whose ink is black as lies—
And when the blackness cleared away,
Self-martyred trout became buffet.
I doubt that any one of you
Could fathom quite the tricks we do.
Terese
[This message has been edited by Terese Coe (edited April 19, 2002).]
|