Wherever You're Going, It's That Way

I can complain about Morocco all I want, but I can’t hide one essential fact. This country consistently has the best oranges I’ve ever had. The two most important words in that sentence, consistently and best are accurate, I assure you. I thought I knew what an orange was before I came to this country. Turns out I was wrong. I have yet to have an orange that was not better than any orange I had previous to my visit. Sweet, juicy, fresh, slightly tart, it’s impossible to fully describe the regenerative beauty that is a Moroccan orange.

That’s why, in order to hopefully communicate the symphony of each bite, I was inspired to write a few poems.

Oh hello orange

Your seedless bounty astounds

Please let me juice you

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There once was an orange of islam

that was blessed by the best of imams

I unpeeled its dress

and then licked its flesh

that was too far, sorry mom

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What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: orange

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Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! The orange is Holy!

Also asshole. Or something.