The Ballad of Aunt Octopia

My aunt, she is a lady grand
With many a limb at her command
Not two, like us, of mortal mold
But eight to clutch and eight to hold.
Beneath her lace and silken gown
The suction-cups go up and down
She weaves a web for all to see
Of maternal propriety.

Her son, a lad of gentle grace
Must move at her most frantic pace
For with a tentacle so sly
She winks his lids and shuts his eye.
She pulls a string to make him bow
Or smooths the furrow on his brow
No step he takes, no word he saith
But by her ink dark salty breath.

Whenever he finds a maiden fair
With roses in her golden hair
My aunt will reach a limb of dread
To pluck the bonnet from her head.
She leads them to the cliff’s sharp side
To view the turning of the tide
Then with a nudge, quite soft and brief
She sends the darling to her grief.

"Oh, what a fall!" the lady cries
With mock-distress within her eyes
While poor young Jack is made to dance
A puppet to her every glance.
Thus through the world they gaily go
Wherever the salty breezes blow
For none can break the mother’s charm
Or flee the reach of her eighth arm.