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.
And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say,
if you look deep enough you can still see, today,
where the Lorax once stood just as long as it could
before somebody lifted the Lorax away.
What WAS the Lorax? And why was it there?
And why was it lifted and taken somewhere
from the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows?
The old Once-ler still lives here.
Ask him. HE knows.
You won't see the Once-ler.
Don't knock at his door. He stays in his Lerkim on top of his store.
He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof, where he makes his own clothes
out of miff-muffered moof.
And on special dank midnights in August,
he peeks out of the shutters and sometimes he speaks
and tells how the Lorax was lifted away.
He'll tell you, perhaps...
if you're willing to pay.
On the end of a rope he lets down a tin pail
and you have to toss in fifteen cents and a nail
and the shell of a great-great-great-grandfather snail.
Then he pulls up the pail,
makes a most careful count
to see if you've paid him
the proper amount.
Then he hides what you paid him away in his Snuvv,
his secret strange hole in his gruvvulous glove.
Then he grunts, "I will call you by Whisper-ma-Phone,
for the secrets I tell are for your ears alone.
"SLUPP!"
Down slupps the Whisper-ma-Phone to your ear
and the old Once-ler's whispers are not very clear,
since they have to come down through a snergelly hose,
and he sounds as if he had smallish bees up his nose.
"Now I'll tell you," he says,
with his teeth sounding gray,
"how the Lorax got lifted and taken away...
It all started way back...
such a long, long time back..."
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