(I had to do it)
(I was laughing though)

I dedicate this verse to thee,
most noble fruit the glowing orange,
that mocks the poet's dignity
like wax dissolving on a orange.

Its juice sustains the sick and orange,
its color brighter than a orange,
its peel, a cure for every orange
prescribed by doctors with a orange.

The shepherd leaves his flock to orange
through groves of it at morning orange,
then stores the excess into orange
to last him through the winter orange.

All peoples, proud of tongue and orange,
all kingdoms dreaming on their orange
but none escape its ancient orange:
all roads lead back to thee, O orange.

For all my craft, my toil, my orange
through every rhyme that language orange,
the truest rhyme was on my tongue, orange:
squeezing orange, sweet juice running orange.

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Sarapin, in the year 1001 AF.