The Lorax Jordan Simons
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "The Lorax" by Jordan Simons. Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.
[Intro]
Yo, this is The Lorax, written by Dr. Seuss, and I’m gonna rap this book
[Interlude]
At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows
And the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows
And no birds ever sing excepting old crows
Is the Street of the Lifted Lorax
[Verse 1]
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 could
Before somebody lifted the Lorax away
What was the Lorax? And why is it there?
And why was it lifted and taken somewhere
From the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows?
The Once-Ler lives there; ask him, he knows
You won’t see the Once-Ler; don’t knock at his door
He stays in his Lerkum on top of the store
He lurks in his Lerkum, cold under the roof
Where he makes his own clothes out of miff-muffered-moof
And on special dank midnights in August, he peeks
Out of the shutters, and sometimes he speaks
And tells how the Lorax was lifted away
He’ll tell you, perhaps, if you’re willing to pay
Yo, this is The Lorax, written by Dr. Seuss, and I’m gonna rap this book
[Interlude]
At the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows
And the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blows
And no birds ever sing excepting old crows
Is the Street of the Lifted Lorax
[Verse 1]
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 could
Before somebody lifted the Lorax away
What was the Lorax? And why is it there?
And why was it lifted and taken somewhere
From the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows?
The Once-Ler lives there; ask him, he knows
You won’t see the Once-Ler; don’t knock at his door
He stays in his Lerkum on top of the store
He lurks in his Lerkum, cold under the roof
Where he makes his own clothes out of miff-muffered-moof
And on special dank midnights in August, he peeks
Out of the shutters, and sometimes he speaks
And tells how the Lorax was lifted away
He’ll tell you, perhaps, if you’re willing to pay
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