He's the color of a bruise and he'll give you one or two
He doesn't need no reason; to him it's always punching season
They call him the Octopunch and he's eating fish for lunch
Down at the bottom of the very deep blue sea
There lives a giant octopus, as hidden as could be
He burrows in the sandy floor to camouflage his fists
But nothing could conceal the amount of anger that exists
Inside his tiny octohearts, yes he has eight of them
He also has eight tight fists, always ready for punchin'
Swim past him and you've messed up, if you've got scales and fins
He hates all fish, big and small, the fishes never win
It all began when he was small, a fish had done him wrong
And now he wanted all of them to go to hell where they belong
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
The Octopunch preferred the black and blue fish
Punch, punch, punch
He'd bash them in their gills
Punch, punch, punch
He'd never get his fill
(another request of Will's hhhaa wtf is this)
YOU ARE READING
Writing Journal 2021
Short StoryThis ain't fanfiction or a story or nothing. I just want somewhere convenient to store some writing prompts I wanted to do since I miss writing.
