At the far end of townwhere the Grickle-grass growsand the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blowsand no birds ever sing excepting old crows...is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.
And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say, if you look deep enough you can still see, today, where the Lorax once stood just as long as it couldbefore somebody lifted the Lorax away.