Once there was an octopus
there was nothing for him to do
than to wobble around and swinging his head
and playing peek-a-boo

His dark ink was his only toy
and his anemones his friends
and noone could ever really tell
where that friendship begun and would end

Clinging to anything that touched his arm
but then cutting it off, avoiding any harm
hiding for the smallest sign of danger
big headed mouth just seemed stranger and stranger

All alone from the time of his birth
no parents to look up to in his short life on earth
keeping limbs busy playing silently preludes
could there be an ending to eight arms solitude?

Clever and reflective, uncertain and selective
imitating any place, reaching into any space
how can three hearts be not enough
for blue blood to find some love?

Are you afraid of dying if you ever fall in love?
isn´t it worth trying before you´ll be a dove?
Shells and clams will never fully cover
your sensitive skin the day you meet a lover

The ocean night is young, but octopus is old
he cannot see the colors of the corals that he holds
though living since before the universe became
it seems the life of octopus is impossible to tame