I recall a series of poems entitled
the man who fell in love with his spleen
A new stanza was publised in a magazine
They all ended in the line you'll never find
a rhyme for orange
every week. I only recall one stanza,
It went something like
You can slit your wrists descretly
whilst your family is drowsing,
you can hear your neighbours breathing
through the walls of council housing
you can be so odd,
you don't find every inch of me arousing,
but you'll never find a rhyme for orange