Critterature: The Peculiar Plight of the Poor Pitiable Octopus

To the ancient Norse he was Kraken With a mean inclination, And the Greeks called him Gorgon With the same reputation. But as monster of myths He's been wrongly miscast, So I'm here to shed new light On this poor creature, at last. An exemplary example Of his cephalopod race, With a blob of a body, The merest trace of a face. He has eight arms, or legs, But no fingers or toes, No waistline or shoulders, No eyebrows or nose. He can fly through the water With the greatest of ease, And accomplishes it sans Catapult or trapeze. When danger confronts him, He's off in a blink, And disappears in a cloud Of stinky black ink. Octobabies leave home When the mother gives birth To be part of the food chain, Which is no cause for mirth. Octodads show affection With indifferent tugs, But at mealtime they can be Overly generous with hugs. The octopus likes his comfort And prefers to make his home In more exotically aquatic locales. It's not unheard of for some, Who want to see more of the world, To drift away from their natural venue, Only sadly to get caught in a fisherman's net And end up on a sushi bar menu. At Christmas he's resigned To passing out gifts, Though as helper elf his head's too big To put a hat upon. And like the squid and the manta, He can never play Santa 'cause he has no lap To be sat upon.