knitt3

Verse 1 They call her My Princess throughout Noir Navio halls, With boughs and curtsies that bounce off the walls, But one voice cuts through all the glitter and pomp— “Clara.” Firm. Fond. Like a shield and a stomp. Through scraped-up knees and candlelit frost, Through lessons in power and a father she lost, Two girls grew up where titles weighed a ton— One with her needles, one sword always drawn. Pre-Chorus In a windowless room with the painted blue seas, With grape juice that glimmers and sugar-dust breeze, The armor comes off (well… mostly, it stays), And yarn dares to challenge a warrior’s ways. Chorus Oh, hail the cat with the symmetrical ears, Stitched up with patience and love through the years! And hail the octopus, leaning left— Eight arms of chaos, dignity bereft! Raise up your pastries, let crumbs softly drop, For friendship survives every battle and flop. If pirates won’t win and assassins can’t stop us— We’ll fall to the wrath of the Purple Octopus! Verse 2 “I’ve battled down traitors, pirates and one vicious goose— Yet this tangled string is a like noose,” Says Cynthia, glaring at yarn like a foe, As Clara just smiles and knits row after row. Loop, pull, twist, slide—perfect and neat, A cream-colored kitten with tiny gray feet, “For children on Haego,” the Princess explains, While Cynthia loses her war with the skeins. Pre-Chorus Two arms are too long, one melted in fear, One simply vanished—was it ever here? “It looks like it lost,” the bodyguard cries. “It’s spirited,” Clara replies with bright eyes. Chorus Oh, hail the cat with the symmetrical ears, Guardian of custard buns and childhood tears! And hail the octopus, lumpy and brave, Fresh from a yarn-spun, catastrophic wave! Lift up the grape juice, jewel-toned and sweet, Toast to the pastries Chef Harold will repeat. For Principality may tremble and dark banners drop— But nothing’s as fierce as the Purple Octopus! Bridge (Soft & Tender) When winter once settled on Astoria’s throne, And Clara felt small and unbearably alone, An old gentle hand placed hope in her palms— Two needles, some yarn, and quiet little psalms. Cynthia sat there, clumsy and grim, Her scarf like a road that refused to be trim, And Clara declared it perfect, divine— And wore every wobble like royal design. “You carry too much,” the bodyguard says, “The crown, and the whispers, and old, heavy dreads. So I’ll fight this yarn till my final breath drawn— If it lets you be peaceful, I’ll stubbornly go on.” Final Chorus Oh, hail the cat with the whiskers so fine, Proof that a broken world can align. And hail the octopus, crooked but true, Ridiculous, dreadful… and stitched through with you. Let Noir Navio ready for war and for storm, Here in this room, hearts quietly warm. For princess and guardian titles may stop— But Clara and Cynthia? They never will drop. So here’s to the crumbs and the yarn on the floor, To armor half-loosened and marines outside the door, To love that survives every title and loss— And the slightly concerning… Utterly charming… Battle-scarred Purple Octopus.