The Northern Lights are so bright they can set off forest fires. There’s nothing more spectaular than A roaring Borealis.
Arborists are underappreciated. They should take a bough.
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.
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.