“So, nothing rhymes with orange?”
Flatly, she queried
Briskly popping a lozenge
“Nothing of a kind or range
To soothe the poet’s quest for words
While waxing on such juicy fruit?”

“Not one,” said he
With a tone of
Finality

“Well, what then of Blorange?
Which the Welsh named a peak
Then too there’s sporange
A spore sack, so say scientist geeks”

“Ah, so indeed there are rhymes!”
Said he, though shaking his head
“But, what poet would use them?
Such odd freakish terms
I’d be seen as deranged!”