Mr Longley's Dream

This is something of a rarity for me. I think I was aiming at the 'younger market'. I subsequently went through a period as a vegan - it was hard work. Nevertheless, man's mass, indeed industrialised, cruelty to animals is a mighty problem.

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James Longley was in business,
   He did it very well,
Battery farming was his line,
   He gave those creatures hell.

His farm was many acres

   Stripped of tree and hedge,
Long grey factory units
   Stood on a concrete ledge.

His birds in semi-darkness

   Lived four or five to a cage,
They were not allowed to turn round
   Or else he got in a rage.

Mr Longley went home to dinner,

   Slapped his paper with a hiss,
“I gave an interview to that man –
   The result is this.

Says I mistreat my chickens,

   Says I’ve done it for years,
But I’ve never had a single one
   Come to me in tears.

Of course some die in their cages

   Gone mad or pecked to death,
But the rest are blithely happy
   And as buoyant as a breath.

My technicians tell me often,

   Pointing to a chart,
That the optimum production curve
   Puts them in good heart.”

Mr Longley filled his wine glass,

   Picked his teeth with a pin,
Thought of all the hungry people,
   “Doesn’t he know the world’s starving?”

Later in bed he snored so hard

   The moon could hardly hear
The chickens in their batteries
   Muttering in their fear.

Then suddenly something happened,

   Something never seen before,
The anguish of those chickens
   Took shape upon the floor.

It had the head, brains and body

   Of a well-developed man,
The dreadful claws of a rooster
   And a beak to open a can.

The rooster-man crept through the yard

   And shook its head at the moon,
The farm dog hid in a bucket
   With a notice saying, “Back soon.”

The rooster entered the farmhouse

   And shook its head at the cat,
Montgomery fled the building with,
   “I’ll leave the key on the mat.”

The rooster entered the bedroom

   With its beak to open a can,
The clock on the bedside table
   Ticked, “Such is the fate of man.”

Mr Longley sat up of a sudden

   And tried to scream aloud,
But the rooster grabbed him by the throat,
   Its wings were like a shroud.

“What is it? Oh, what is it?”

   The scared director said;
“I shall cut off your nose and clip your arms,”
   The angry rooster said.

“What is it? Help! Oh, what have I done?”

   The director tried to gasp;
“I shall lock you up in a tiny box
   And secure it with a clasp.”

The rooster lifted its terrible beak,

   Ferocious on the bed,
Mr Longley shot from the bedroom,
   Screaming and holding his head.

He rushed along the landing

   With a loud, self-pitying groan,
He was halfway into a cupboard
   Before he realised he was alone.

He stood there panting heavily

   Trying to snatch at a thought,
The moon stared in at the window
   Like a palely-shining nought.

He crept back to his bedroom

   And put his head round the door,
Only an old pyjama top
   Lay crumpled up on the floor.

It looked just like a rooster

   With beak and feather and claw,
But it was only an old pyjama top
   Crumpled up on the floor.

Mr Longley whistled with much relief,

   He wiped his brow with his hand –
His chickens! He would set them free
   And let them live on the land.

He rushed downstairs to get his coat

   And find his bunch of keys,
But as he went he had such thoughts,
   Such thoughts as these...

“It was only a dream, a horrible dream,

   That creature doesn’t exist,
What would I do if I closed the farm,
   Fade gallantly into the mist?

My tax situation and current account

   Are both looking reasonable,
You’d throw this away for one bad dream?
   Don’t be a fool!

Oh, but I’ll make whatever improvements

   My technicians tell me to do,
Though I must admit they’ve often said
   I should pack them in two by two.

And, indeed, to increase intensity

   By a factor of three or four
Should push up returns dramatically –
   I’d really start to score!”

He went upstairs and back to bed

   And later switched off the light;
The thoughts which swirled inside his head
   Were not a pretty sight.

The dog returned to its usual place,

   The cat came in at the door,
It crept to its corner and shook its head,
   What was suffering for?

The moon like a great white, frozen tear

   Swung sadly overhead,
It wiped its eyes and blew its nose
   And wished that it were dead.

The battery units, grim and grey,

   All doors securely locked,
Sailed on like mighty ocean tramps
   With years before they docked.

A hopeless, pre-dawn emptiness

   Descended on the land,
Inside the creatures suffered and died
   Ignored like an empty hand.

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© October 1980