Hang on! Where did the indigo go?

I was standing by the window, I was watering the plants. The low sun strafed the horizon And struck the panes askance. Just above the mantelpiece The spectrum was displayed The end of it touched my piggy bank — What are the chances, eh? Regaining my composure, After much hilarity, I thought I’d do some science And see what I could see. I knew there should be seven shades So it was a grievous blow When I could only count to six. There was no indigo. Now I’ve no wish to be troublesome, I don’t want to start a quarrel And questioning one of the fundaments That’s borderline immoral. But my eyes have been tested a dozen times And my vision is perfect, so I’ve reluctantly concluded There ain’t no indigo. Indigo is a conspiracy. Indigo is a hoax. A paint manufacturer’s PR stunt, A lousy April Fool’s joke. Three whole colours after green, You have to be kidding, no? I could go for a yelange or a grue, But really, indigo? Indigo, it’s a fantasy, A phantom and a figment. The emperor’s new colour Is an imaginary pigment. No mention of it in the Bible At least I don’t think so, But I’m pretty sure God never says: ‘Let there be indigo.’ We must stand up and say it Though some there will decry us, Call us colourist crackpots And ‘indigo deniers’. But they’ve all just been brainwashed To accept the status quo, A case of mass hypnosis Codename: Indigo. We’ll change the old mnemonic As part of our cunning plot To ‘Richard Of York Got Bad Verrucas’ Historically accurate or not. We’ll strip it of its status, Downgrade it like Pluto, Strike it from the record The ex-shade indigo. We’ll amend the constitution After a secret ballot, Painting will be a pleasure With no imposter on the palette. I met my first wife in art class She ran off with a Cubist, you know. Funny how I can’t remember her name, Oh, hang on a minute though…

G. Bell, Eastleigh, Hants.