MID seaweed on a sultry strand, ten thousand years ago, A sun-burned baby sprawling lay, a-playing with his toe. The babe was dreaming of the day that he might swing a club, When lo! He saw a fishy thing, a-squirming in the mud. The creature was an octopus, and dangerous to pat, But the prehistoric infant never stopped to think of that. The baby's fingernails were sharp, his appetite was prime, He clutched that deep-sea monster, for 'twas nearing supper-time. Oh! Suddenly, from out the pulp a fluid black did flow, 'Twas flavored like a barberry wine and gave a sort of glow; It squirted in the baby's eyes; it made him gasp and blink, But to that octopus he held, and drank up all the ink. The ink was in the baby—he was bound to write a tale; So he wrote the first of stories with his little fingernail. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TROUBLE IN DE KITCHEN by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE GREAT SAINT BERNARD by SAMUEL ROGERS NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 24 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT WIND WEAVING by FRANCES HALLEY BROCKETT A ROMANCE OF THE GANGES by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING SPRING FANTASIES: 4. HORN AND VIOLIN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON AUNT DOROTHY'S LECTURE by ADA CAMBRIDGE WALDEN LAKE by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) TO [THE REVEREND] MR. NEWTON ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE by WILLIAM COWPER |