Thursday, February 10
The real giant monster has a poem.
"It's called, 'IN THE FUTURE,'" he says.
"Time travel machines will grow on trees,
While Machine Gun bushes blow in the breeze.
Blenders are tubers,
And Racecars sprout up,
Bright red and round.
Lightbulbs grow fresh
For Children to pluck,
Lazer Guns flourish
With some Rain and some Luck.
I wish I lived in the Future,
Where it all grows on Trees,
'Cause working's for suckers,
And it all grows on Trees."
"I'm from the Future," says the mechanical giant monster.
"Yeah?" asks real monster. "What's it like?"
Mechanical giant monster shrugs its shoulders. "It's, I mean, I come here all the time. It's nice to get away from so much Future. You know?"
A butterfly flits by in the gentle breeze. They both watch it, amazed at the elegant and simple beauty of the world.