Is there nothing so annoying,
As that fruit that ends all rhyming?
The one that's round and rolly,
And a true poetic folly.
That stupid, rind-covered orange.

It is frustrating but true,
That this tragic'ly named food,
Shall never appear in a verse,
That will be at all famous.
That stupid, citrus fruit orange.

No ballad, epic, or measure.
No iambic pentameter.
Color and food all in one,
Of poetry 'bout it there's none,
That yellow and red merged orange.

Brings madness to many a poet,
And most would rather avoid it.
Can cause men to rip at their hair,
(That's why Shakespeare's head was bare.)
Brought on by that stupid orange.