The Rhyme of Heroic Orange
Every shop has some burdened bin,
Usually, in some corner,
Away from light of prying eye,
Some treasure half-consumed.
Sawmill tailings,
Short skeins of yarn,
An ambitious bucket
Recycling bolts.
Somewhere, I know
I too, keep such,
That trove of words
Once used and sometimes useful.
Now ‘most forgot,
Ones you used to know,
Like “inkhorn” or “pedantic”.
‘Cause books lie now in decline.
True, I also vest sparse time
For verbage such as this,
And I might just throw them out
For all the good I’d miss.
Except that even little wooden words,
Not near utilitarian,
Have hedgehog virtues unexplored,
Like the statue of Pygmalion.
So, I will find a way to tip the bin,
Let its phonetics tumble,
Arcana’s little prison break,
While I deputize slow posse comitatus.
It wouldn’t do to manacle,
Or trammel them,
From the lucent and the free,
It’s just a gas to purve their fate,
If it were all left up to me.
I’m certain there once was a word
That rhymed duet with orange,
Or mayhap, its partner purple;
But that was long before my memory
Of heros that wore such capes and hose.
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