I stand at the window watching John talking to the lemon tree in our dried up garden.
“Six years you have done this to me, you bastardly tree, was it not me that planted you. I took your little tender seed and placed it into the most fertile soil known to man and fed you water so pure that the clouds became jealous, and all while you were growing and now you have no lemons! No fucking lemons!”
He pauses during hia remonstration towards the tree to move in a little closer to get a better comprehension of it. I wonder what sorts of drugs he must have just taken.
“You have measly little flowers, only the poorest of insects and weakest of birds would bother to pollinate you and likely because of their diminishing eyesight. You cretin of a tree, look at you; you grow now 3 metres tall and 3 metres wide yet your lamentable little leaves can’t harbour any shade. Not even enough shade for a rabbit… nooooo, the rabbit has to suffer through the ghastly heat as it ponders about how such a big tree can provide no shade and during all this it sweats out so much bodily fluids that its skin stretches tight against its bony structure resembling a cadaverous body and then its brains begins to boil and it collapses of exhaustion and dies. You bastardly little bunny killing tree, I will get my revenge for all those little helpless rabbits you killed.
“Hah, but worst of all… worst of all is that you do not even fruit, except for those pitiful little green lemons that worms dare not resort to, not even common bacteria. They fall to the floor and remain there resolving not to take part in putrefaction, just reminding me of how superfluous you are. Your sole purpose in life is to fruit beautiful fleshy sour lemons with yellow skin that catches the eye, but you can’t do that can you, nooooo!
“You remind me of a eunuch, a fat smelling eunuch with boils on his face and on his baldhead that sits there on a lone bench in a park repulsing passers by who often have to put a piece of cloth to their mouth and nose to prevent themselves from gagging.
“I mean to cut you down tree! I will cut you down with a blunt axe so that you agonise in your slow death. Then once your trunk collapses with a satisfying thud to the ground I will unearth your roots and will place them into my oven. I shall put my oven onto such a great temperature that your roots turn to a fine ash that can even be dropped through a perfect set of teeth. I will then toss them into seas that haven’t been sailed in for many centuries so that you shall all but be remembered.
“Oh and lets not forget those undecayed fruits of yours that will still be lying helplessly on the soil. I shall torture them to the extent that they will be envious of even those poor souls who were subject to the brazen bull.”
He comes back into the house with his held down and muttering under his breath about the “bunny-massacring tree”. I watch with an amused grin as he comes back past with a heavy axe in his hand.
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