The octopus
If a marvellous beast you would seek, then the least
You could do is consider the octopus.
He needs little help when he’s playing with kelp,
Or he’s choosing a shell or a rock to fuss.
Whenever he thinks he’s in danger, then ink
He’ll deploy, in a cloudy intense mess;
And he’s suckers and beak; both will bite, so to speak,
So he isn’t completely defenceless.
And – this is quite strange – all his colours he’ll change,
His melanocytes growing and shrinking;
For thus he will message his love or distress,
So you’ll usually know what he’s thinking.
If ever you view this cold spawn of Cthulhu
You’ll see that he’s worth the beholding.
He slithers around on the undersea ground
Like a live origami unfolding.
He’s a cephalopod with a hell of a bod
(If I briefly may use the vernacular).
No finger nor toe has he anywhere, so
He relies on his being tentacular.
He’ll snag you in bonds, like anemone’s fronds
(Although maybe developed abnormally).
His family tree’s with the molluscs, you see.
No anemone he, no anomaly.