[Roger Slater]

Farewell to Arms

Although there was no final score
he could not prophesize,
ironically, when death arrived,
it took him by surprise.

[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.

[John Whitworth]

I love that weird verse form, man. It sings!

[basil ransome-davies]

As you will have seen, John, it consists of stanzas that are limericks till the final line, when they go kinda apeshit.

[Roger Slater]

Earth, prepare to be a host:
Paul the Octopus is toast.
Let the English mollusk lie
Emptied of his prophecy.

In the nightmare of the dark,
All the broken bookies bark
And the fools who set the odds
Prowl in vain for better gods.

Boneless blueblood, triple-hearted,
In the cold night you departed,
Leaving wagerers to guess,
Doomed thereby to unsuccess.

Fellow prophet, follow right
To the seas of second sight.
In the prison of his sin,
Teach the bettor how to win.

[Catherine Tufariello]

Looks like we've got a full slate of prizewinners here! Roger, I think this latest one is your best of all.

[Mary Meriam]

Yes, Roger, that's a winner.

[John Whitworth]

I concur with Catherine. Isn't it mollusc?

Yeah Bazza. Apeshit. Kinda nice though.