Everything Stinks Till It’s Finished.

I Am The Lorax! I Speak For The Trees, Which You Seem To Be Chopping As Fast As You Please; But I Also Speak For The Brown Barbaloots, Who Frolicked And Played In Their Barbaloot Suits, Happily Eating Truffula Fruits. Now, Since You've Chopped The Trees To The Ground There's Not Enough Truffula Fruit To Go 'round! And My Poor Barbaloots Are All Feeling The Crummies Because They Have Gas, And No Food, In Their Tummies.

Simple It's Not, I'm Afraid You Will Find, For A Mind Maker-upper To Make Up His Mind

It's Opener, Out There, In The Wide, Open Air.

Plant A New Truffula. Treat It With Care. Give It Clean Water. And Feed It Fresh Air.

You Can Get So Confused That You'll Start In To Race Down Long Wiggled Roads At A Break-necking Pace And Grind On For Miles Across Weirdish Wild Space, Headed, I Fear, Toward A Most Useless Place. The Waiting Place.