Here's a joke. What did the wall say to the tree? Oh, it's fun you ask. How old hails began actually? The two were just small, a blueprint and settling. Here is the sun we bade most out when all befall our autumn when leaves Sirena turn, saving chlorophyll, releasing methane, no thinking that required, pothermones hour, rain, that counteractors coming let show him our best, thank goodness it's fall, but it collided for the rest. Will use the space, make use of the land, save just that one though, fill the rest with sand. Don't cut them now, we'll use the wood, we'll save a load if they grow as they should. A decade point five and still all remained. The contractors back to reap all he had claimed. Take out your chainsaws, gather the lumber, turn them to condos and make with a plunder. All this happened, Tim just did still. His new neighbors, green window sales. My friends are all good, though I knew they would leave, but in this way I could not conceive. I'll reach out my branches and try to flirt. They just say, what's this thing? I'll hang a mushroom. All this out still further, check in my limits. Now my arms in the jaws, clumped up into a chapat's. All this still more, the world keeps calling my name, and knows it quite well, and the arm set has lain. So now I reach to only the street, where sometimes I catch the gaze of girls, cluggling by fate. Timber!