Nine people sent me octopus poems, six in the comments, three via e-mail.
Some were playful, some wistful, some absolutely stunning, most silly as all get out, and one unspeakable in polite company.*
All names went into the Pink Cowgirl Hat of Win—some twice, because they earned extra points—once I pulled it back into shape, but only one was chosen:
Independentclause, whose wry doggerel (pun totally intended) refers to my most recent culinary efforts (I hope):
I once had a dog who ate spaghetti raw,
never once did she get it stuck in her craw.
She would have liked it better
in a hot-dog sweater
snatched from the plate of your mother in law.
Congratulations, Indy! Send me the link to your mug of choice and your address and I’ll get it sent.
And thanks to all of you who played along on such short notice and humored my octopus fugue.
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*Y’all have heard me speak here before about Kev. He truly is a lovely guy, but what do you do with a man who is incapable of passing up rhyming ‘mollusks’ with ‘bollocks’?
Earful of Cider 