Better yet, there oughta be a land where litterers live. A pretty little place with lakes and trees and green green hills knee deep in rusting cans—(three cups is not nearly enough)—plastic bottles, fast food containers, cigarette packs and newspapers. There should be no garbage service in this land, no trucks nor people employed to pick things up, put them where they should be. Because then one day with a bit of luck the hills would be obscured, the lakes choked with debris— and the plastic bags would be where the litterers like them: all a-flutter in the spring blossom’d boughs of trees.
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