My name is Orange. I create things that are orange. My house is an orange color similar to orange. My stallion is orange. My world is very firm: everything inside it is big and blown up. It’s like outer space in one room. No lights or other colors; orange is everything but the gaps. My shoes are shaped like balloons. You see me carrying giant swords with my two fat thumbs like enormous grapes. I am a very variegated Orange Man ebulliently effervescing. Try to fade or smother my stuff, it’s still orange. Silently whisper my color, yet it is loud. Transforming hands into rubber ovals, neon and flashing. Cosmic cartoon with sturdily outlined dialogue bubbles. Orange troublesomeness packed inside orange cubby holes.
Strangely enough, I am grayscale, executing words. Describe me as horrible, but it melts. I’m going way out into an orange planet. My spine becomes licorice rope, nectarean, yet I’m still the straightest and strongest. Goresnips and flops are orange and orange. (Both of those things I just made up.) Even certain fruits are orange.
The zero is the leader of our city. He is oval shaped in an orange robe wrapped tight as zest. My town is heavy pulp armor with oozing solidity. Ozone bubbles and fire plumes are the “orange d’oeuvres”. Flipping its bangs of magnificence comes our state bird with orange latitude. Punctuation is bright orange on all of our mutterings. The totally normal kids are singing apprentices; and our sorcerers are shrinking metal ignorance, dabbling in orange water, dribbling hetero crafts, sniffing round carbon and plugged in with orange wire like Milky the Warm Cow.
Come down into soft feasible mentality sipping a zizzazzi spellinjer. The orange is too tremendous to miscommunicate. It’s static like Sand Time Language Barrier Oh. Flip it or shake it, I have to tell you: it’s nothing like the thing you think. It’s orange.
CHORUS
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