[Roger Slater]

Thanks, Orwn.


Poem for Paul

Inside a tank we locked up Paul,
but in his way Paul locked up us:
we were his eager fans in thrall.
God how I'll miss that octopus!

[John Whitworth]

Farewell to Arms

Dear friends, can we forbear to weep
For Paul the octopus,
Wrapped in his last eternal sleep?
Alas, ‘twas ever thus.

Intelligent, eight-footed, he
Lived but a two-year span
Who could have lived a century
If he had been a man.

But is there man alive, outside
The works of science fiction,
Whose cerebellum could provide
Such wonders of prediction?

Squid seer, enjoy your sainted state,
Much-mourned cephalopod,
Reposed in the octangulate
Protection of your God.

[FOsen]

What instruments we have agree,
the day of his death was cold and dank
but that was rather the point, you see,
since home was an aquarium tank.

No squid, though he is venerated
for all the ink he generated;
and yet, to fans of teams who'd lose, he
should long ago have gone for sushi.

Today, they seem to have their wishes;
the octopus sleeps with the fishes.
He swims in Lethe on safari—
as seer, though, not seared calamari.

In death, he's dealt them one more failure
as taunting as a vuvuzela
or haunting shade of Thomas Gray:
The menu sells no roll of Paul’s filet.

Frank

[John Whitworth]

Frank, that is brilliant. Dammit!

[Jerome Betts]

The glass may be falling over here, but Roger, John and Frank, the bar is doing the opposite thanks to you.

[Orwn Acra]

Thanks, X. J.

[Jerome Betts]

Strewth! Great stuff, Orwn, worth waiting for. Paul's ashes must be glowing in his grave!

[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!