Saturday, September 4, 2010

Martin the Monkey

Martin the monkey boy lives in a tree
And swings in its branches all happy and free.
He eats ripe bananas
And bugs from his fur,
Then languidly listens while hummingbirds whirr.
Yes, life in the jungle is peaceful and good
For Martin the monkey, at home in the wood.

Then one day while Martin was peacefully napping,
From waaaaay down below came the strange sound of snapping.
It crackled and grumbled, it creaked and it grew
‘Til the jungle was filled with this hullabaloo.
Then Martin, our monkey boy, woke with a start
As the tree right next door fell down, ripped apart.

Martin looked down with his heart crazy-pounding
And saw several monsters (machines) there surrounding
His tree, his tree!  Oh his beautiful tree!
“I must still be dreaming,” he thought.
“I’ll count three.”
But when Martin the monkey had finished his counting
He looked down again to find THEM still surrounding.

“Okay,” Martin thought, “perhaps they don’t know
That I live way up here since they’re so far below.
So I’ll climb down and tell them this tree is quite taken
And they’ll simply move on once they know they’re mistaken.”

Quite pleased with his plan, he crept down with great care
Pausing only to notice the stench of the air.
As he finally drew near to the monsters, it seemed
That their growls grew much fiercer.
Inside Martin screamed.
But he bravely went on, thinking only of stopping
The monsters from making his tree-home start dropping.

He reached them at last, but before he could speak
He looked at them hard and he let out a shriek,
For inside the monsters (oh boy! Was he lucky)
Were a hairless and tailless, brand-new kind of MONKEY!
“Now I certainly know there has been some mistake.
We monkeys don’t burn and we monkeys don’t break.
So stop this new game.  I live here, you see.”
But at that very moment
They knocked down his tree.

Martin scrambled aside, barely keeping from dying.
He looked at the monkeys, and then started crying.
“Why have you done this?  Why can’t you see
That this was my home, this was my tree?
I used to dance here.  I used to sing.
And this tree was alive.  It was not just a thing.”

The monkeys in monsters (people, you’ve guessed)
Just looked at him blankly.  They weren’t impressed.
“People get paper,” they said, “from  the trees.
It has many uses and gives our lives ease.
This one will be paper that cleans up our poo,
And you, little friend, we will sell to a zoo.”

They trapped him, they caged him, they locked him up tight
And put him on an airplane to fly out that night.
Martin lay sadly, defeated, alone,
A monkey with nothing.  Not even a home.

This story is sad but it’s very much true.
Just ask Martin Monkey, who lives at the zoo.
He eats ripe bananas
And bugs from his fur,
Then languidly listens while car engines whirr.
He’s not very happy, being no longer free
Like he was when he lived in his very own tree.
But to more monkeys like him
This won’t happen, assuming
We care for the Earth, and stop just consuming.

No comments:

Post a Comment