Romance flowers when you least expect! My pal Pete Rose, a bouquet at the racetracks, has a girlfriend named Bea. They met at a party, and she laughed when he offered to fertilizer. She looked at his pistil and said “I bet you don’t have stamena.” How a pollen right? And yet he nectar anyway! Then they ducked into a bathroom and she bloom on all florist. Wow, they seed an opportunity and didn’t waste mulch time; now they’re inseparable. That’s love for you, not just a ficus of the imagination. It never turns out as you plant.
If I were a tree, I wood like poplar music. Especially Spruce Sprigsteen. Or Johnny Cash’s Balsam Prison Blues.
Successful mating results in spawn attaineous combustion.
I didn’t want to walk in the woods. But I was forest.
What tree is thriving in this depressed economy? The weeping will owe.
Arborists are into treesomes. Which leads to a lot of unplant pregnancies.
Arborists are underappreciated. They should take a bough.
What’s a vegetarian’s favourite place to dine?
I wish I could piss on a tree! Oh, how I’ve pined and urined fir that scents of pees! Or at least dribble on my balsam.
The Northern Lights are so bright they can set off forest fires. There’s nothing more spectaular than A roaring Borealis.