(Muttering, to himself) Go away, little pest. There’s no profit in shame. And you can’t knit a Thneed without playing the game.
No, Once-ler. I want something harder than blame. I want you to speak a forgotten boy’s name.
(To the audience, breaking the fourth wall) He lifted me up by the scruff of my soul. He said, “Unless someone like you…” (He stops, choked.) …cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.
(Sing-speaking, a raspy, soulful growl) I speak for the trees, though the trees are all gone. I speak for the wind, though the wind has moved on. I’ve shouted and hollered till my voice went dry, At the fool in the window with the greedy green eye. the lorax musical script
(A pause. His voice softens.) You kept it.
The game? Boy, the game ended ten thousand stumps back. You’ve turned the Truffula groves into bric-a-brac and a shack! You’ve silenced the Swomee-Swans, choked the Humming-Fish dumb. And still you sit there, counting your nails and your thumb.
(Clutching the jar to his chest) So what do you want? A confession? A tear? A promise to fix what I poisoned last year? (Muttering, to himself) Go away, little pest
(Smiling, fading into a soft golden light) I speak for the trees. And today, Once-ler… so do you.
(Singing softly, a melody rising) Plant it in the shadow of the mess you made. Let the roots break the concrete where the profit laid. One seed doesn’t fix it. One tree doesn’t mend. But a forest of sorry’s a forest, my friend.
(Poking his head out. He’s older, softer, sadder.) I know what I did. I don’t need your lecture. I built this whole mess on a single conjecture— “If more is more, then the most must be best.” But the most… was a barbed-wire fence ’round an empty nest. No, Once-ler
Setting: A murky, grey wasteland. The stage is littered with jagged stumps and skeletal factory parts. A single, rusty ladder leads up to the ONCE-LER’s shuttered window. The air smells of "smogulous smoke."
I couldn’t plant it. I couldn’t let go. That seed was a mirror—too painful to show. But hiding the seed doesn’t hide the crime. The Lorax was right. I was stealing… not time.
(Stepping closer. Not angry now. Almost gentle.) I didn’t leave you. You left me for dead. You traded the sky for a roof ’round your head. You traded the breeze for the smell of the vat. And now all you’ve got is a dusty old flat.
(A long silence. Then, barely a whisper.) …Ted.