Sonnet Dare: In Which I Cotton To A Coconut-Carting Cephalopod

It's veiny, vaguely pink and near some nuts --
But get thy mind from yonder gutter, please!
I'm speaking of a freaky octopus
Who lives exposed in sandy-bottomed seas,
The Amphioctus marginatus would
Be vulnerable there were not for its
Ingenious use of coconut shells, good
As snail or nautilus ones, when they fits
The octopus's body. When it must
Go roaming, Marinatus sometimes goes
On two tip-tentacles; the others just
Wrapped tightly 'round his head; therefore what shows
Looks like a walking coconut. So smart!
He shows Cthulhu's lineage in part.

In Which I Am Not Making This Stuff Up

Now comes the news from ol' Down Under way,

Of wallabies who get as high as kites --

They like to eat the poppies, so they say.

Then crazily they -- no, don't get in fights --

But run around in little fairy rings

Until they fall down dizzy and they crash.

While I still favor ordinary things,

Like ropes and boards and scissors, I'll not trash

This tale as yet another theorem

For how crop circles come to be out there.

Marsupials on opium? Condemn

Them not! They like a good time, to be fair,

As much as aliens and people do,

And naturally some mischief will ensue.

In Which I Plea For Less Talk Of Pus

'Tis hunting season. We know what that means:
Blaze orange clothes and hats, and pickup loads
Of animals and parts thereof, and scenes
Of game wardens beheading, 'longside roads
(To check for chronic wasting disease signs),
The newly-harvested elk, moose and deer
And checking paperwork, issuing fines
As needed. Then there's something that I fear
Most deeply, though my stomach's truly strong
(A fancier of insects needs one such):
That's graphic talk of wounds and pus and wrong
And pungent smells from parasites. Too much
Of that talk always makes me ill, yet lo:
It is my fate to hear it, ever so.