Orange juice in morning sun, As fresh as the new born day A chill before the shadows lift Calm before the din and bray Occasional clatters of coffee cups As a waiter clears a table And then skulks away for a cigarette To enjoy when he is able The lovers walked through orange groves Seeking breakfast for to kill The hunger pangs that furrow brows And hamper love's goodwill As bitter as the oranges Was the story from the maid The fruit will simply fall and rot And not be used in marmalade For demand from England has declined Yet the groves they linger still Reminders of a golden age, The oranges of Seville.