The
Neurons of the Octopus are Vested in its Tentacles
The octopus is in its groove
Conscientious thug in a realm
Its neurons mostly sway in arms
Its brain is finer than the slots
Apparently the waters warming
Will do just fine, the creature,
Swiftly changing to demands,
Is no polar bear for sympathy
Our brain is in the tongue
It’s tied into a knot
Forests being felled in swaths
Thank god we’re half way in
Our brain is in the bog
Its fumes tally
the decay
You see the compass arrow spin
We’re all heading South
Each breath falls off the shelf
Rum is running in the ears
Our brain ranks last in thought
Nonetheless talks a lot
Our brains are in our cocks
Acquiescing to its rot
The mind is tucked in fast asleep
Thoughts without being thunk
Our brain is leaking common junk
The info poisonous to touch
Were we an octopus to acclimate
We might just call the
future lunch
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