When “X” said, “the name’s Red Bubble”,
I felt remembering it’d be trouble,
I could sooner recall Red Balloon,
That site for gifts of trips to the moon.
Then tangents carried me away,
Like a Red Kite on a windy day,
And going down like a Red Zeppelin,
Would be creativity if thus je m’appelle-ing.
Why the red, it must be said,
When scarlet’s much racier instead?
I’m sure there’s supporters on the crimson side,
Were carmine or vermillion even tried?
Who will manage this effervescent medium,
To save it from fizzy or frothy tedium,
To inflate the insides and explode doubt,
By blowing the bubble’s membranes out?
Are there boys in the bubble and a baby and a babble,
Who’ll find a sole diamond amidst the rabble?
Or does a Bubble girl in a Bubble world,
Ignore the plastic to extract the pearled?
As non sequitur in prose is king,
Here’s an abrupt pull of the pin:
So like my attempted designer stubble;
It’s grown on me, has Red Bubble.