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"I am the Lorax," he coughed and he whiffed.
He sneezed and he snuffled. He snarggled. He sniffed.
"Once-ler!" he cried with a cruffulous croak.
"Once-ler! You're making such smogulous smoke!
My poor Swomee-Swans, why, they can't sing a note!
No one can sing who has smog in his throat.
And so," said the Lorax, "-please pardon my cough-
they cannot live here. So I'm sending them off.
Where will they go?... I don't hopefully know.
They may have to fly for a month... or a year...
To escape from the smog you've smogged-up around here."