In writing my poems, it's always my quest,
to take the time, to make it rhyme, but I'm in distress.
I wanted to convey, how much better I rest,
Since the purchase of a great mattress.
My problem you see after plenty of test, I bought a "Purple,"
and "Dang Me" the only thing I found to rhyme was, "Maple Surple."
One of the the worlds favorite pigments, after centuries of time,
has not a single word to which in can rhyme.
A color once held in history as the royal shade,
even now leaves this poet, his poem unmade.
A purple fruit, from which wine we could make,
And someone chose, to call it a "grape."
I say it's high time to correct, this to long slight,
And save the word "Purple" from it's unjust blight
How about you Auto Makers, with your Durango,Sienna, and Tesla.
Come up with a sporty "Verpule," if you wanna Impreza.
Hey, Disney you once rhymed, Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,
would doing "Purple" be so atrocious.
Big Pharma, with your colorful, zides, mycins, and statins,
maybe you can use an "urple" in your next covid patents.
You TikTok influencers I'm calling on you,
#Purplechallenge, together, let's see what we can do.
Well, I was really pumped, but now, I just sit here sad.
The Purple Company, sent a gift, an "ORANGE" mattress pad.
So now I pull out my ceremonial sword of "Silver,"
and commit this poem to: "Hari Kilver."