O what has become of the Truffula trees

that swayed in the cool summer breeze?

The Lorax has fled, the Once-ler is dead,

because of a deadly disease.

In the Grickle grass there lay the Brown Bar-ba-loots,

not a sound of their hoots, they were dead-ass galoots.

Because of new laws, they’d no Truffula fruits,

and now decomposed in their furry red boots.

No Humming-Fish hummed in the scummed-over pond.

No spell would revive them, no magical wand.

Some said all would change if the Lorax came back.

But that dude is hiding, he can’t save you, Jack.

The trees have been felled and the birds are no more.

Not even the poor Swomee-Swans know the score.

If only they’d listened and stayed more inside,

with great social distance, they might not have died.

The Lorax had warned us. He spoke for the trees.

And now we are all mostly dead from disease.

So, kids, mind your parents and stay out of school.

It’s better to still be alive and a fool.

When earth has subsumed all your technologies,

may the cool summer breeze rustle Truffula trees.