This woman is special,
So special,
she waltzes in ballrooms,
in the backstreets of his mind,
She's dancing in perfect time at last,
Unusual, she hears him say,
She has the limbs of octopuses,
She has not the gift of rhythm,
Arms flailed around,
as tentacles,
each tentacle holds a different key,
One for you,
One for me,
The other six in lucky dips,
Mood of the moment,
On his tentacles,
yes,
the lady,
she said tentacles,
Sometimes they stroke,
sometimes the smoke,
sometimes they're tender,
sometimes upstanding,
always a kind heart defender,
sometimes demanding,
sometimes the tentacles wander,
to spots they're not meant to go,
he turns round and smiles,
screaming "hell lady poet,
no",
The music beats,
the drums bash on,
Opened her eyes and he was gone!
(C) Livvi