The fat, old oak watches on in jealousy as the supple, young pines twirl and twist, spinning their skirts.
The younger trees attempt to copy the twist.
They are drunk and tie themselves in knots.
Drunk trees are drunk.
When trees just want a hug but their loved ones are just out of reach. If we could hear trees talk, we would be nauseated by their screams of agony.
The sun has got his hat on. But it carries a racist slogan, so he is told to take it off immediately. The sun gets really pissed and hides behind a cloud, returning the land to the frigid temperatures of before.
The wind caresses the Earth, following her contours and leaving tell-tale trails in the powdery snow.
Also, someone pissed against that tree.
Weird hands. The trees are trying to tell us something.
“Help, my gloves are full of custard!”
Some guy called Bates lives here. Keeps himself to himself, quiet kinda bloke.
Man with lots of extra arms suddenly growing from his elbows holds his head in pain as antlers spring forth from his forehead.
I remember when all this was fields.
Two big fellas coming down the hill.
“What’s going on round ‘ere then?”
Odd little frozen lizards bursting from the undergrowth.
Spider Tree, Spider Tree, does whatever a Spider Tree does, which is primarily standing still for a large amount of time and eventually falling over.
Watch out criminals!
“And they just kept getting smaller until I could fit one in my hand! A tiny, little purple pine tree, just sitting there in the palm of my hand!”
Suddenly! A miniature, alien invasion fleet.
They come. We die. It’s all over.
