The King and Prince leave the castle at dawn

Riding on horseback, to the forest they go

But then the Prince starts, and thereon

yells, "I left Mr. Orange with Mr. Mango!"

The King sighs as he watches on

His son riding speedily back home

His shakes his head at the ridiculous names

As a feather lands on his horse's mane

My pretty bird is so beautiful here in this small place. My pretty bird -- with her drug-store-orange hair and feathery, falling-apart locks -- sits pretty here, sings pretty here, wears breathing tubes like diamonds, paper gowns like silk. In this ammonia-stained castle I can see clearly the shadows delving deeper underneath the wings of her shoulder blades. My pretty bird sleeps pretty on her stiff, bleach-soaked perch, chirps pretty to the stiff, bleach-soaked nurses, drinks pretty through the stiff, bleach-soaked feeding tube. Melodious, picturesque.

I find her busying herself sometimes: paintbrushes, canvases, watercolor. In the end her fingers are just a little too shaky, my pretty bird's mind sure but her body uncooperative, unwilling. In the end her drug-store-orange hair and feathery, falling-apart locks are the most vivid contrasts against the stark monochromatic walls. I find her on the floor when no one else notices; I find myself busying my own mind with her too much when the wings of her shoulder blades hollow out painfully to reach for another hue, when she looks at something that isn't her, wasn't her, couldn't possibly be her when she was only diagnosed just a year ago. My pretty bird sits most of the time. I, with my ornithologist eyes, can only watch.

She greets me with a cheery hello at the delivery of each daily dose of painkillers. We talk sometimes.

"...Seriously? 'Orange-Feather-Castle'? That's your safe word?" asked a skin-tight latex dominatrix with disdain on her lips.

"What's wrong with it?" asked her paunch-ridden gimp.

"Well, it's a mood-killer, for one," she replied.

"Okay, fine, what's your suggestion?" he asked.

"'Don't stop'."

*****

"Sir, we've finally done it! We've compiled the only known list of words which are impossible to use, in any order, to offend someone," Johnson said enthusiastically as he waved a piece of paper in the air.

"Wh-at? No way, that's impossible," Reginald intoned doubtfully.

"No sir, that word is not on the list," replied Johnson.

"All right, fine; let me see it," Reginald said as he snatched the piece of paper away from his subordinate. "Johnson, there are only three words on this list,"

"Yes sir," Johnson nodded in the affirmative.

"Orange...feather...and castle?" Reginald read aloud.

"That is correct, sir," said Johnson.

"Well I am offended that this list is so short. Go compile me a longer list," Reginald ordered.

That was when Johnson's CPU overloaded and his head exploded like a Samsung Note 7.

Robots will never be able to pass the Turing Test.

*****

"Knock-knock," said a frilly, tiny, and pink princess.

"Who's there," asked her father, King Shaggybeard.

"Feather," she said.

"Feather who?" he asked.

"Orange you glad I'm not a castle?" she delivered with a big bright smile.

That might not be how the joke format supposed to works but King Shaggybeard still laughed and really, that's the most important thing.

*****

"Howl's Feather's Moving Castle? Kiki's Orange Delivery Service? My Orange Neighbor Totoro? These are the worst knock-off names I've ever heard," scrutinized a balding Caucasian man in his mid-40's. He was touring the streets of Hong Kong and happened upon a bootleg stand.

"Hey, I worked hard on those," the Chinese bootlegger said with hurt feelings.

"Well, put some orange feather castle on that and say that so someone who cares," said the ungrateful tourist just before a crate full of oranges fell from a nearby truck and sent him to the feather castle above.