The Octopunch

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