Deep in the Amazon rainforest, above the boxes and the shelves.

Are thirty million people that are called The Happy Elves.

Native are they to the place, with corridors galore.

They will tell you if you ask, they love the place. For sure!
If they say that they do not, their bangles start to glow.
The numbers drop on their bangles, as they always know.
If you’re not a Happy Elf, your numbers will decrease.
But it won’t drop below ’50’, that number is the least.
A sandwich and a tea, okay, now that costs 75.

And monthly rent is 30,000, inside communal hives.
But you’re paid 10 an hour, and if you do not sleep.
The number becomes 20, a fine reward to reap!

Deep in the Amazon rainforest, above the sawdust and the drones.
They have a little depositary, for you to pick up bones.
Human remains are 5 a pop, so pick them as you go.
You pick them and pack them, to optimise workflow.
We have a Hall of Fame, for the Happiest of Elves.
Those who put the Amazon rainforest first before themselves.

But we’re a family here, specifically divided into tribes.
If one of you collapses, you’ll be responsible if they die.
And if they are unhappy, our bangles feel their woes.
And so the bangle glows, and if you’re near them yours will glow.

It goes from navy blue to an upsetting kind of red.

So I stress that you should be happy, just suffer in your head.

Deep in the Amazon Rainforest, above the girders and the beams.

Where every elf is happy, and all is as it seems.

You have three hours off each month, for you to have some fun.

If you’re in the top percent, we may let you see the sun.
But all is not quite right and we’re not quite at perfection.
A group of elves from Sector 7 are planning an insurrection.

We limited the bangles thinking that would kick them to the kerb,
But they just made community gardens with vegetables and herbs.
We don’t know where they got it from, but we have data from our matrix.

They stole manure from our warehouse where we keep our Amazon Basics.

We sent the military out to help, to relieve them of their freedom.
Or murder them and take their bangles, the factory will need them.

Deep in the Amazon Rainforest, there is fighting and there’s death.

The Happy Elves are dwindling, soon there won’t be many left.

They’ve breached the wall by ramming them, whilst wearing explosive hats.

My Happy Elves are suicide bombers. There’s irony in that.

The light in the cracks and the workers run, to whatever is beyond.

I would have raised their pay to 15, but they’ve already gone.

They run towards the cold daylight, millions of people, quite the sight.

With arms outstretched and reaching, just like a plane in flight.

The other sectors are falling, slow. The people realise that they can go.

I see a twenty year old worker who’s shocked at snow.

Touching it.

Feeling it on his hands.

He cried.

So my Amazon Rainforest has fallen, it wasn’t meant to be.

And that’s the whole of the story. As it’s written, A to Z.


This is an excerpt from Charlie Chitty’s new poetry chapbook, Throwing Dead Pigeons Into Oncoming Traffic, coming soon from Terror House Press.