Oh, For a color, A fruit, And a word with which we cannot rhyme, How we love to hate you! Like the poor woman compared to a traffic cone, You are never enough, yet always too much. The amorous man does not turn his head for you, Rather surrenders himself to oncoming vehicles! The combination of red and yellow, You will always be Secondary— Everything and nothing like your predecessors. Too vulgar to seduce, Too intoxicating to enchant, Oh, if only you were Primary! Perhaps then, We would realize your brilliance, As one does when another plays hard-to-get. Perhaps, then, We would call them “orangeheads” and not “redheads!”
Orange ARMOUR MAGAZINE
14