The bruises on the orange
Soften the pulp
And—you pulled it apart—
The sweet juices
Run down your dirty fingers.
Once you have had your taste,
The poor, battered thing
Lies on the ground—
Drained and rotting—
ii. orange
The bruises on the orange
Soften the pulp
And—you pulled it apart—
The sweet juices
Run down your dirty fingers.
Once you have had your taste,
The poor, battered thing
Lies on the ground—
Drained and rotting—