Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Trees
I have been meaning to blog for ages about how sinister and scary trees are, but, well, not done it.
Trees. They are sinister and scary. Standing there with their great arm-like branches, like enormous people staring over us only immovable and solid and made of wood, yet still somehow living. It is unnatural.
Chop them all down and make burgers out of them, I say. Why do we need trees for oxygen when we have grass, spider plants, rose bushes and all those other green things, lettuce for instance?
And to think that people actually hug them. Ugh.
Trees. They are sinister and scary. Standing there with their great arm-like branches, like enormous people staring over us only immovable and solid and made of wood, yet still somehow living. It is unnatural.
Chop them all down and make burgers out of them, I say. Why do we need trees for oxygen when we have grass, spider plants, rose bushes and all those other green things, lettuce for instance?
And to think that people actually hug them. Ugh.
# posted by Annie @ 7:27 PM 
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I much prefer to hack down trees while the huggers are performing God knows what sort of perverted act of arboreal defilement.
The burger consumer also benefits, as this may be the only way that protein actually enters the fast food chain.
The burger consumer also benefits, as this may be the only way that protein actually enters the fast food chain.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's hungry breast;
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree!
Joyce Kilmer
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A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's hungry breast;
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree!
Joyce Kilmer
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