At the far end of town
where the Grickle-grass grows
and the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows
and no birds ever sing excepting old crows...
is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.
I am the Lorax who speaks for the trees
Posted by Darin R. McClure on 11:36 AM in saturday-morning-cartoons | Comments : 0
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