Another demo from the archive recorded in 2018 at

Sandy Springs, Atlanta, Georgia with my good friend Steve Baird. This lyric is about the awful mass shooting in 2016 at the Pulse gay club in Orlando Florida and the politicians of the day responses.


I don’t see beauties as we drive on by
Cow parsley and foxgloves in the hedgerow
My eyes are still filled with tears as I cry
For the hand holding boys of Orlando

On TV Donald says he will ensure
That no terrorists come from the get go
Utters no words to the hacks on the floor
For the hand holding boys of Orlando

Hillary says that she’ll stop everyone
The police have questioned and then let go
Buying and owning assault rifle guns
For the hand holding boys of Orlando

Only Bernie has stood up in public
From Washington to Maine and Ohio
Sharing grief and sympathy in his shtick
For the hand holding boys of Orlando

The sun sets on the gun laws still standing
Bigots and shock jocks across radio
Spread hatred, lies and misunderstanding
For the handholding boys of Orlando

If I could I would travel back in time
To that club where gay men and their friends go
Take the gun from the one who did that crime
For the handholding boys of Orlando

Harry Rogers, in the hut, july 2016


Looking through old demo tracks I came across this version of one of my songs recorded with Marc Gordon at Studio 49 in Narberth in 2013 for our album of love songs “Ripples In The Water Of Love”. The song title was suggested to me by my old friend Colin Bodiam at Deep River Records in Depford, London. The Lyric is set in County Cork, Eire not far from Skibbereen.

Where Bluebells Bloom

On the road to Barlogie Cove
With an old friend of mine
I drive past that house of yours
That overlooks Lough Hyne
We’re off to empty lobster pots
On his old clinker boat
I hear a single seagull sing
A very plaintive note
You’re sitting in the window
Of that upstairs room
You look with longing at that
Hill where bluebells bloom

That hill
Where bluebells bloom
That hill
Where bluebells bloom

Where you took me in the springtime
Through the woodland glade so blue
To the summit of your universe
And swore that you were true
I see that his flash car is back
Parked up in the drive
The way that I was feeling
He’s lucky to be alive

I guess that I’ll keep driving
Down to Barlogie Quay
And let all of last year’s fantasies
Fade into memory
I hope you’ll not be crying
In your lonely room
As you look out that window
Onto Knockomagh Hill
There where bluebells bloom!

Harry Rogers in the Old Study 2012


This piece of performance poetry was recorded by The Chilly Dogz in 2010 at Red Kite Studios in Llanwrda. Words by Harri Rogers, Guitar by Marc Gordon. Still valid today as a critique of management speak.


Your office door is always open, I hear you on the phone 

Run it up the flag pole, Give the dog a bone 

It’s a nice little earner, Kick it in the long grass 

Stick it on the back burner , We’re gonna whup their ass  

I hear what you say 

I don’t like what you do 

I wish you’d go away 

Cos I can’t stand you 

You say you’re building your team 

But things aint quite what they seem 

Sharing Mars Bars in the Mendips, Where the glasses are half full 

It’s all singing and dancing, In the best of both worlds 

So throw me a bone, Give me a break 

The buck stops here, Let’s cut to the chase 

Gotta ramp it up, cos you’re off your face. 

I hear what you say

I don’t like what you do,

I wish you’d go away,

‘Cos I can’t stand you 

You’re a legend in your own lunchtime, 

But I know where your bodies are buried, 

So gather up your parrots and monkeys, 

Take those skeletons out of your closet, and clear your fucking desk 

Stop talking twaddle and GIVE US ALL A REST 

Harry Rogers, in the old study, Aberbanc, 23rd February, 2010


I went down the East End
Near where I used to live
I saw a lot of things there
That I just can’t forgive
There were Bankers and Brokers
Every fucking where
Poncey ponces playing
Ponzi solitaire
Poncey ponces playing
Ponzi solitaire
Even though the system’s broke
They keep right on playing
They’re not listening
To what us folks are saying
Never mind the Euro
The dollar or the pound
The bail-outs or the crunch
Society falling down
Anti-social Tories cheer Hip Hip hooray
While their creepy auditors chip chip chip away
As the welfare state we built is vanishing today
Old New Labour politicians don’t have anything to say
Shareholders stand forlornly
On the steps of Mammons church
The bankers and the brokers
Have left them in the lurch
The greed is good brigade
Care not for other people’s dreams
Outrageously they’re still stashing
Cash from solo Ponzi schemes
Poncey ponces playing
Ponzi solitaire
Poncey ponces playing
Ponzi solitaire
These Poncey ponces playing
Ponzi solitaire

Harry Rogers in the old study, 10th November 2010


Had enough of coke fueled politicians,
And neo liberal superstitions.
Comrade, don’t ask me which side am I on?
I’m on the same side I’ve always been on.
I have never crossed any picket lines,
Always lobbed money in buckets for fines.
In early morn, as blacklegs are bussed in,
I’ve stood side by side, fighting hard to win,
Justice for workers, in struggle on strike,
Our last resort when we stand for our rights.
Now Jabba The Hut says he’ll send in scabs,
One more dodgy scheme from one of his chaps.
He’ll bring in police to enact his law,
Rise up, stand as one, NOW we know the score.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 23rd June, 2022.


I wrote this lyric for my band, Scene Red, we recorded it in 2013 on our first album Tales From Dolwion on Deep River Records, available on Bandcamp, . It’s a short memoir of my life as a fourteen year old boy serving after time drinkers in the Bricklayers Arms, Trafalgar Road, Greenwich, around 1961.

3 AM Monday morning
In the Bricklayers Arms
This old pub is losing all its charms
Dad sits at the piano
Playing autumn leaves
I serve two villains
Fresh blood on their sleeves
The weekend’s nearly over
I have had enough
East Greenwich town’s
Getting kinda rough
I’ve got school in the morning
Homework stays undone
I’ll get caned again
That won’t be much fun

Unbroken ponies
Running free in Greenwich Park
Unbroken ponies
Eyes shining in the dark

Shining, shining, shining
Shining in the dark
Unbroken ponies
Running free in Greenwich Park

Two geezers spoofing
Drink for drink for drink
Their wives are waiting
But they don’t stop to think
Eddie’s in the old bar
Giving head to a worn out queen
My mum’s drinking brandy
With a bunch of old has beens
I watch the villains
Stitching up their alibis
This pony stands unbroken
Defiance in my eyes
This old pub
Is losing all its charms
3 AM Monday morning
In The Bricklayers Arms
Pretty soon I will be
Outside running free
Running with those ponies
That are just like me

Unbroken ponies
Running free in Greenwich Park
Unbroken Ponies
Eyes shining in the dark
Shining, shining, shining
Shining in the dark
Unbroken Ponies
Running free in Greenwich Park

Harry Rogers, in my old study, 2011


Still wanders through corridors,
ghoul, who dresses up
In multi staff changing rooms,
Emerges to present us
With a brand new changeling guise.
A total reset master,
Permanent disorderly,
In total, chaotic, bliss,
Overwhelmed in denial.
Still sports distainful manner,
Unable to recognise
Any construction of truth,
Shuts off realisation,
Drunk on addictive power,
Dismisses all wall writings.
Full pelt in rocky waters
Sails uncharted not quite sunk
Holes rent daily, hull leaking.
Spaffs schoolboy pipedreams with glee,
Unaware days now numbered.

We wait on with bated breath,
Soon our faux democracy
Will stumble on as BoJo smirks,
Whilst all crashes around him.
Red Wall? Reset? Level up?
Orwell was never more right.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, 8th June 2021.



































There was panic in the circus
As they struck down their tents
They packed their trunks and animals
And hurried out of town
But, as they drove across the bridge,
Militia shot them down.
Cages tumbled into deep gorge,
Lions roared, horses screamed,
Clowns howled, acrobats akimbo
All dashed on rocks below,
Tangled wreckage lay drenched in blood,
Diesil and alcohol.
Only the ringmaster remained
Alive, gently twitching
Atop another grassy knoll,
Before sniper topped him.
Shrapnel permeates green landscape
Hallmarked by BAE,
Delivered by train through Poland
Directly from NATO.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom,
May 7th 2022


Mice dance around May poll whilst cat’s away.
Multi coloured ribbons flutter in breeze,
Tangled inexplicably as they play
Games with democracy stuck on its knees.
Cat loses track of lives in Gujarat,
Garlanded he strikes billion pound deal,
Eases visa rules, such a clever cat.
Gambols fast and loose. How does Kashmir feel?
Lives vanish, is it seven, eight or nine?
Embrace another bloody autocrat,
Drink deep of diplomatic casks of wine,
Lives run out for this most reckless of cats.
No silver spoon helps him in New Delhi,
Cheshire like fades as mice invade telly.

Harry Rogers, in The Red Bedroom, April 21st 2022.


One thousand bumptious, roller coaster, days
In the Westminster fun palace theme park.
Milestones lie scattered across all benches
Where terminology has never been
Quite so inexact as it is today.
Gates are left open for party goers
To gaily wander through willy nilly,
Laughing smirkily at legality,
All the while spewing fake apologies
For taking electorate for granted.
Only when polling stations close in May
Will the circus select new ringmaster.
We’ll bid farewell to this classical clown,
As his short lived reign comes tumbling down.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, April 19th 2022.


I’m a gettin’ scared
Of Armageddon
I’m a gettin’ scared
Of Armageddon
Can’t watch anymore
Stark pictures of war
I’m a gettin’ scared
Of Armageddon

Tell you what I did
I got off the grid
Tell you what I did
I got off the grid
I won’t pay their bills
I won’t pay their bills
Tell you what I did
I got off the grid

Get off of the grid
Don’t pay what they bid
Get off of the grid
Don’t pay what they bid
Set up solar farms
Let’s use our own arms
Get off of the grid
Don’t pay what they bid.

It’s time to rise up
It’s time to rise up
It’s time to rise up
It’s time to rise up
Get off of the grid
Get off of the grid
Hit them where it hurts
Let’s get off the grid.

Harry Rogers, Hastings, April 6th 2022.


When did morality go up in flames?
How did desperate liars seize power?
Did you hear the town hall clock strike thirteen?
What can be done about such lunar tricks,
Played constantly on our weak, damaged, minds?
Slogans writ large across red tour buses,
Lapped up by poor austerity victims,
Trashed by the reality of brexit.
Instead of health services delivered,
Shining brightly, in new Jerusalem,
Find crumpled expectations blown away,
Cast to winds in preparation for sale
To rabid yankee scum tax evaders.
Pandemic rages but our eyes avert,
Past daily dose of military porn,
Towards flash Gov dot com advertisements,
For new multi billion pound process.
Send asylum seeking single young men
To camp Rwanda for resettlement.
Grant one way tickets to oblivion,
All for the sake of taking back control.
Anybody who protests too loudly
Portrayed as enemies of the people.
Whither guardians of media truth?
Have all bastions of legality
Been overwhelmed by coked up uber spads?
We now live in universe beyond sleaze,
Beyond greed, beyond even perfidy.
Westminster become Pandemonium,
Capital of sociopath reigned hell,
Ever more desperate to hang onto
Their increasingly sick power bases.
Daily mainstream media flood airways
With militaristic jingoism,
War films or nature documentaries,
The news, game shows, quizes, soap operas,
Everywhere one looks it becomes clear,
World Wars One and Two have never ended.
Soon Brexit bunting will limply flutter
Over crass blitz spirited street parties.
It is very hard to gage numbers of
People able to concentrate enough
As we move further into penury.
Tell me again how we got to this place?
How brilliant to sell off Channel Four,
Close down all those who hold executive
To account. War is love, and greed is good.
When is the next general election?

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, April 15th 2022.


Gushily mouthing obscene expletives
That demonstrate a complete lack of soul
Our home secretary defies logic.
Spends time on emisseration projects
Designed to assuage her back bench ghouls.
Her latest frustrated apology
When questioned about visas for refugees
Fleeing war attrocities in Ukraine,
Generates more questions than it answers.
Doesn’t she know what a refugee is?
These people whose whole lives are now destroyed,
Need shelter, sustenance and instant love.
Surely visas can be issued home here?
What kind of country are we living in?

Harry Rogers, in The Yellow Room, April 8th 2022


Our lives, governed by twin parentheses
Which run side by side and drive us all mad,
Are attacked daily by propaganda.
Truth lies inconveniently hidden
Behind shaky Chinese walls, constructed
To ensure that people never find out
What, exactly, actually happened.
Technology, too sophisticated
To understand, bamboozles most of us
Into acceptance of daily hubris,
Pumped out continuously on platforms
Owned or controlled by power obsessives.
Our minds, twisted through pandemic and war,
Are moulded as putty by demagogues.

And now we cannot pay our heating bills….

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, April 5th, 2022.


I was born in 1947
A full two years after second world war
Ended in victory against Nazis.
For every year of my long long life
There’s been war waged somewhere on this planet,
Families destroyed, houses blown to bits,
But what lies behind this ongoing shite?
Why do politicians from every
“Free democracy” rock up at arms fairs?
Dead keen to enable Arms companies
To maximise sales of deadly weapons?
It’s because war is very lucrative,
The sheer volume of taxpayers money
Directly transferred into shareholders
Bank accounts annually is mind-blowing.
This legal money laundering machine
Maintains a murderous global elite,
Who thrive on misery, death, destruction,
Sickness, paranoia, fear and power.
Nothing more or less than a mafia
Sustained by democratic illusion.
Factories employ millions in the
Production of mass destruction weapons
On every continent across the world.
This sociopathic scam masquerades
As necessary to keep us secure.
In reality it’s gangsterism
And we are being robbed of better lives.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom April 1st 2022.


Scene Red rehearsal demo recorded in Harriboy’s Hut in West Wales 19/03/2022.





























Harry Rogers – In the old study 05/06/2012


Scene Red demo from 2019.


Let’s honour them all
The living and the dead
Especially all those
Politically misled
Fighters, civilians
Children young and old
All the war torn victims
Of whom we’re never told

Honour them all
War is not a game
Honour them all
War is not a game

Put away the blame
Everyone’s the same
We all share the shame
With or without fame
Every time we maim
Strike another claim
We’re all in the frame
Humans all by name

Honour them all
War is not a game
Honour them all
War is not a game.

Harry Rogers
In the hut


Forget about austerity
Imposed for fourteen years
Forget about the pandemic
We’ve got some brand new fears,
We’ll occupy your minds all day
With thoughts of something new
Forget corruption by our state,
Adopt yellow and blue.
Kwasi, in our name, says we’ll all
In solidarity,
Stand alongside Ukrainians
And accept poverty.
Once more the Eton way comes clear,
Build castles out of sand,
Recent troubles all disappear
In each new sleight of hand.
We’ll never find pea neath their cup,
Hands move too fast for that,
Instead our minds are all fucked up,
Extend precariat.
Use any means that we can find,
To maintain status quo,
Awake folk devils deep in minds,
Each BBC News show.
One thing we might learn from the streets
Of Russia and Ukraine,
United people can defeat
The oligarchs of pain.

Harry Rogers in the red bedroom, 10th February 2022


Who’s got the guns?
Who gets the guns?
Whither these guns?
When it’s over?
If it’s over?
Bullets brand new,
What shall we do?
Like Libya,
Or Syria,
Or in Yemen?
Once guns are in
Who gets them out?
Who knows who’s got?
Who knows who’s not
Armed to the teeth
When it’s over?
If it’s over,
Ever over,
Is it over?
Who’s in clover?
Who made the guns?
Who sold the guns?
Fills the bullet?
Trigger? Pull it,
Orders given
By whom? Who Knows?
For what? Who knows?
Once war’s begun
Who’ll smash up guns?
Once they’re out there
Someone will use them.
Years after years
Who cries the tears?
Who wants new guns?
New fathers? New sons?
Come now, let’s run,
Smash up the guns.
Answers not guns,
Futures not guns.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 9th February 2022.


There is a run on the banks in Moscow,
Putin is put out as people rise up,
Never factored in a put down at home.
Sleepy and Bodger sell another pup.
In this week of darkness has reason died?
Held my three week old grandson in my arms,
He looked deeply into my rheum filled eyes,
Back home radio spews nuclear harms.
Humanity, locked in spiral of death,
Produces new ways to maim and to kill,
Ghouls call for no fly zones, spurred like Macbeth,
Send jets, autonomous drones, I grow ill.
UN ramp up along with rest of West,
Grandson unaware world not at its best.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, March 4th 2022.


Those were good old days,
All things on a plate,
Just wear stupid hats
All he had to do.
Abused privilege,
Now in wilderness,
Lost forevermore,
In purgatory.
Bloody idiot,
Never ride again,
Outside a palace,
Trooping a colour.
Brung it on himself,
Threw it all away,
What now can he do?
I don’t care, do you?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 22nd February 2022


We are all Trussed up like Tory turkeys
Waiting in our nuclear roasting tins
To be popped into incinerators
In every large European city.
Iron lady reincarnation flies
Into Moscow in a large black fur hat
Juggles sabres that rattle with false facts
Drunk on Trumpian braggadocio.
Hyper Deja Vu, we’ve seen it before
Feels like the lead up to the first world war.
Back then it was Armageddon came first
Followed by global virus pandemic.
This time it’s t’other way about comrades.
What a jolly millennium this is!

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom,
February 13th 2022


No leveling up
In humble town
Prices go up
Wages go down
Pass hemlock cup
To Eton clown
We’re rising up
Level them down

Rising up
We’re rising up
In humble town

From up above
We’ve had enough
Of Tory guff
They can get stuffed
Today we say
We will not play
Inflation games
Ain’t gonna pay

Rising up
We’re rising up
Level them down

No living wage
In austere age
Unlock this cage
Write a new page
Won’t go away
We need more pay
Hear what we say
It’s judgement day

Rising up
We’re rising up
In humble town

We’re rising up
To bring them down
We’re rising up
In humble town
We’re rising up
Level them down
Level them down
Level them down

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 7th February 2022


Bear Skin and scrambled eggs now stripped away,
Dress uniforms mothballed, medals in drawers,
HRH no longer formal today.
Like a whipped corgi, cowered on all fours,
Now banished to the proletariat,
Haunted as he drives to secret retreat,
Actions will come out, bet your house on that,
Behind scenes there will always be more meat
To flesh out dusty scandal skeletons,
Whilst we watch as we ride our Pelatons.
Dark cupboards, sticky cobweb filled corners,
Crammed with depraved rumours and back stairs tales.
Such decadence, ascribed to those former
Firm favourites, into open does sail.
Beyond The Pale sordid meeja dams burst,
Petty editors scrap to get in first.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 14th January, 2022.


There’s a bag man in number eleven,
Whose whole raison d’étre is to bring home
Bacon for all his City cronies and fellow
MPs who are in on this techie scam.
Back home all hell breaks loose over booze-ups,
Haystacks Johnson, not so giant these days,
Appears on the ropes in false flag scandal.
Opposition leader, Starmer, performs
Like a third rate student union hack,
Choosing to ignore monstrous corruption,
Instead carries on mining yesterday’s
Farcical partygate misdemeanours,
Whilst our personal NHS records
Are asset stripped under his very nose.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room 13th January 2022.


Wait a minute, wait a minute
You ain’t heard nothing yet
Wait a minute, I tell you
You ain’t heard nothing
You wanna hear Toot Toot tootsie?
All right, hold on, hold on
Lou, listen, play Toot Toot Tootsie
Three choruses you understand, and the third chorus I whistle
Now give it to ’em hard an’ heavy, go right ahead
Toot Toot Tootsie goodbye
Toot Toot Tootsie, don’t cry
That little choo-choo train
That takes me
Away from you, no words can tell how sad it makes me
Kiss me Tootsie and then
Oh baby, do it over again
Watch for the mail
I’ll never fail
And if you don’t get a letter then you’ll know I’m in jail
Don’t cry Tootsie, don’t cry
Toot Toot Tootsie, goodbye
Goodbye Tootsie goodbye
Goodbye Tootsie, don’t cry
That little train
That takes me
Away from you, no words can tell how sad it makes me
Kiss me Tootsie and then
Hey hey, do it over again
Watch for the mail
I’ll never fail
And if you don’t get a letter then you’ll know I’m in jail
Don’t cry Tootsie, don’t cry
Goodbye Tootsie, goodbye

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Gus Kahn / Ted Fiorito / Ernie Erdman


I took a charabanc to the country
On the road outside Croydon Aerodrome.
Walked through stands of acorn laden oak trees,
To cafeteria with a juke box.
Slurp up a strawberry ice cream milk shake
As Buddy sings about his Peggy Sue.
Beatnik with a sketchbook in the corner,
Sketches apocalyptic post nuke scenes,
After Hiroshima what does life mean?
Evermore paranoid until we die,
Sixty five years on it is all still there,
Buried in deep recesses of our minds,
Once seen annihilation images
Are hard to erase no matter how much
Bubblegum our culture sticks us up with.
Tell me again, why do we need Trident?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 11th January 2022.


Dance into limelight with racquet in hand,
Believe other poeple don’t understand
Why borders and rules no longer apply
To gladiators who fly through the sky.
This self serving delusional rebel
Cloaks himself in Spartacus’s armour,
But he is no new people’s champion.
Tainted with individualism,
Courts down under will not call his balls in,
This is one tie breaker he cannot win,
Secluded now in self isolation,
His plane fueled up in anticipation,
Which ever way his case will twist, or turn,
Next time he plays true fans will make him learn.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 8th January 2022


Test negative for permission
To leave behind television,
Drink with your mates inside the pub,
Twerk all night in favourite club
We all just love to celebrate
Each holiday we stay up late.
Take risks after work, why worry?
We’ll be sorted in a hurry.
MPs appointed a banker,
Bean counting pedal and cranker,
Without any knowledge of health,
Another guardian of wealth,
As NHS England Chairman,
Just one more trip on the stair plan.
Be merry, go out, eat and drink,
It is much later than we think.
Shake it up baby, twist and shout,
Get together, work it on out,
Exactly what’s safe in their hands?
Clocks tick whilst we don’t understand.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 5th January 2022


Follow the Covid Money trail,
This government beyond the pale.
Stinking dead cats lie all over
Ludicrous media cover.
Shifty change from democracy
Into state of kleptocracy
Took place with little or no fuss.
Press barons hid it all from us.
Whistle blowers soon were forgot,
Pandemic blew cold hot cold hot.
We found new terms were placed on top,
New rules each day, they never stopped.
For two years learning curve so steep,
At night it grew too hard to sleep.
Critical skills lost along way,
Confusion made truth hard to say.
We came too late to partygate,
Drew curtains on the track and trace,
Health ministerial snog fest,
Oh how they showed us they know best.
To be honest we’re not impressed,
Not in the North, the East, the West,
Even the South has now turned sour,
Clamour for change grows hour by hour.
We must remember, through it all,
To keep our eyes upon the ball,
We’ve all been robbed in broad daylight,
In open view, without a fight,
Massive contracts were handed out,
Opposition declined to shout,
Billions trousered by their friends,
No questions asked of means or ends.
We watched breifings upon TV,
Fears exploited across country.
Yet all the while our human rights,
Whittled away, silent news nights,
Soon it will be impossible
To call them out, nor do fuck all,
To stop the march of fascism.
Public trust? Anachronism.
To some this all sounds rather rude,
The truth is we have all been screwed.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 30th December 2021.


There is a great diversion between fact,
And optimism built on power needs .
Jubilation in hospitality,
Hospitals question their mortality.
Restauranteurs, publicans, jump for joy,
As government adopts wait and see ploy.
Many urged to party till end of time,
Prevarication truly modern crime.
Pale riders stalk dancefloors in London town,
The unvaccinated getting struck down,
Yogic fliers fill up I C U beds,
Political spads smashed out of their heads,
Scientists get thrown beneath Tory bus,
Protect and survive is now up to us.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 28th December 2021


Confusion rules, we move into Christmas,
Ghost story before bed on big day eve
Not a patch on reality horror
Of year gone before, truly a nightmare.
Most of us speak up for democracy,
Accept, sometimes grudgingly, power wrought
By “winners” of elections in our name.
Majority rule accepted in our interest,
But sometimes, it’s clear, people make mistakes.
Pups sold as pedigree turn out to be
Vicious mongrels disguised as labradors
Who care not for those that feed them daily.
After Boxing Day watch as flags fly high,
Laws will change, too late for to work out why.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, Christmas Eve, 2021.


In back garden where red leaved acers grow
Foxes meander, hunting before snow.
We’ve spent all year on Covid climbing wall,
Paranoid about whether we will fall,
From what height might we crash to the floor?
How far are we from pandemic death door?
Media revels in government stats,
Mental health fails, even aristocrats
Are disturbed by Panglossian failures,
Equally appalled by misbehaviour
Of public school oiks flying high on coke,
Who think government is naught but a joke.
A hoarde of starlings, out in my garden,
Plunders our birdnuts. Winter does harden.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 24th December 2021


All my friends in Georgia got the Rona
Loadsa my pals in London got it too,
Still we wait to analyse the data,
Whilst everyone knows it’s running riot.
Still freedom mongers argue let it run,
We all have to have Merry Christmas fun.
Palaces for pleasure will stay open
Until Boxing Day shutdown takes a hold.
Christmas parties must all go with a bang,
Delta and Omicron can both go hang,
Let’s all do the conga up Downing Street,
Masks off, they wallow, heading for defeat,
Everyone’s got Rona, some ‘ave ‘ad it twice,
Some ain’t coming back, Rona isn’t nice.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 22nd December 2021.


The Whelk In Its Shell

Trouble is when a “leader” knows where the amount of bodies are buried as he does it’s awful difficult to winkle such a whelk out of his shell. Know what I mean? After all he is a former journalist, nay editor no less, and journos know more than most about the importance of information. So whilst it may be true that many colleagues and advisors might have knowledge of yet more damning evidence against him, it is equally possible that he has a fat dossier on almost every one of them. This then is a possible reason for the shilly-shallying about in terms of depositing him on top of the nearest scrap heap where he so obviously belongs. He, of course, can’t help being a pathological liar, he always has been, is now, and ever will be. Also he can never accept responsibility for his own actions, when things go wrong someone else always shoulders the blame. There is, however, always a tipping point, that moment when the public pay enough attention to realise that the Emporers new clothes don’t exist and that he is actually caught naked in the headlights of his own car crash. We are almost at that moment I believe because in my view he has made a strategic blunder. Putting the head of his chief Spad on the chopping block in a humiliating resignation ritual was not the action of a wise man. Doing so has alienated a number of senior politicians and Tory grandees, including the Chancellor. The question I would like answered is who exactly leaked the footage of the practice press conference to the Mirror? What other such baubles might come into the public domain twixt now and New Year? One thing’s for certain, if things don’t change they’ll stay the same, and that ain’t gonna happen.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all, stay safe. Harry Rogers, in The Yellow Room, 18th December, 2021


It looks like a bye bye by-election
Where Boris Johnson cooked his golden goose,
Now he has to learn to feel rejection,
It’s what you get when you play fast and loose.
A pizza, some coke, wine laced up with rum,
Folks hate “do what I say, not what I do”
One can’t break your own rules, run wild, have fun,
North Shropshire has spoke, it’s Boris, fuck you.
He was their hero, he got Brexit done,
But that’s not enough to stay number one,
Owen Patterson besmirched the true blue,
As leader spaffed on, knew not what to do.
How long will he stay? We all wait to see,
As soon as he’s gone the drinks are on me!

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 17th December 2021.


BJ’s whippet enters the final bend
Well in the lead with his backers cheering,
At this point dead cat was thrown onto track,
Race descended into farce and every one lost.
Partygate sprinted straight past Brexit Boy,
Left growling as he gnawed on moggy’s corpse,
Unhappy punters call for a rerun,
Brexit Boy’s last race is done, he is crocked,
Cat laced with concentrated Omicron
Is the nemesis that leaves him undone,
Dreams of endless power leave BJ’s head,
Floodlights dim as supporters drift away,
What was it that old H G Wells once said?
Oh Yeah, “Every dogma has it’s day.”

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 15th December 2021.


Spread thickly across slices of burnt toast
This over bitter oleaginous
Sticky mess now engulfs our whole nation.
A recipe written in double meaning
Sugared beyond sweetness to be force fed
Into expectant Brexiteer gullets.
Britain, a giant foie gras factory,
Produces paté by the lorry load
For overweight ex public school breakfasts.
Language, choice tool for engendering fear,
Mangled by catastrophic abusage,
Turns gibbering fascists into heros
And journalism to propaganda.
George set his book forty years too early.

Harry Rogers In the Red Bedroom, 14th December 2021


Arrogance always precedes a fall so it seemed possible that change was imminent, but nothing fights harder than a cornered rat.
The desparate catastrophising of the pandemic in order to focus people’s attention away from the depraved indifference and endemic corruption that underpins the Orbanisation of British political constitutional life points to a severe attack of paranoia on the part of the Prime Minister and his sychophantic advisors and supporters.
However what this clique and their claque fail to recognise is that vast swathes of humanity don’t agree with the Hobbesian belief that when someone falls down the first inclination of the human being is to laugh, rather they are more inclined to agree with Rousseau and go and help them up.
So when Stratton and the crack spad squad were caught on video laughing about breaking covid rules whilst others toiled under Draconian regulations, and in some cases died, that was too much for the majority to bear.
Whether this proves fatal to the Johnson premiership remains to be seen. No doubt Johnson intends to take paternity leave after Xmas so it will be entertaining if nothing else in the short term to observe how the whole partygate saga pans out with Raab at the helm whilst The Prime Minister attends to parental duties.
I suspect there are grey suited rumblings in smoke filled rooms taking place but whether this is more than a diversion away from the rightward march of history is hard to tell.
After all, they do need a fall guy to take the blame further down the road, so maybe Johnson clings on for a few more months yet…..


Your starter for ten…..

Have we found the single point of failure?
Bring on tinsel, stilton, buckets of fizz,
Christmas jumpers, walnuts, packets of whiz,
Special advisors, old school friends, chiz chiz,
Prime Minister hosting annual quiz.
Oh what jolly times were had by this crew,
Who told the whole country what they should do,
Destroyed last Christmas for me and for you,
Let’s chuck them out in twenty twenty two,
But they won’t go lightly, this bunch of crooks,
They’ll keep us hanging on tenterhooks,
Media buddies are rewriting books,
Downing Street caterers hiring new cooks,
Judges are cleaning up their regalia.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 13th December 2021.


Extreme Centrists

Wait for eternity and never hear
Eloquent argument for speaking truth.
Well, not from Labour leadership members,
Their abject silence on Assange destroys
Common socialist credibility,
But then, with so many extreme centrists
Complicicit in American war crimes,
How can we expect anything better?
They will never condemn Blair, Brown or Straw
For their murderous criminality.
This then explains why they are prepared to
Throw Julian under their clapped out bus
By adopting a total silence vow
On the day British justice soiled it’s pants.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 11th December 2021.


Spoonful Of Brainshine – demo

An antique, solid silver, mustard spoon
Sparkles crystaline in deco splendour,
Small, perfectly formed and ergonomic
Passes at the parties that never were.
Sculpted bowl contains perfect brainshine toot,
Correct amount for late chat and frolics
Or mid afternoon, pre speech, pick me up.
Passed between financiers, libertines,
Politicos, Journos, Celebrities,
Rock stars,. lawyers, crooks and minor royals.
If only this arcane tool of beauty
Could voice the conversations it had spawned,
How much history, oiled by Charlie,
Came into being through scoop filled mind games?

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 9th December 2021.


Squawk, Squawk.

There’s a pandemonium of parrots
Squawking loudly beneath Westminster Bridge,
Old Bill found more than a bag of carrots,
Stashed in bottom drawer of some MPs fridge.
Every single day tear our eyes away,
From obscene constitutional warfare,
As in some nightmarish Chekhovian play,
Where power abuse hides behind false care.
Such arrogance flaunted direct to face,
Blatantly smirking as honesty dies,
Steal popular ideas from any place,
There’s no opposition to counter lies.
Parrots fly back to each media perch,
Truth, peace, and justice are left, in the lurch.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 7th December 2021


‘ello, ‘ello, ‘ello!!!

Three pronged approach to drugs,
Prime Minister impersonates drug squad,
Officer on a night raid in Kirkdale,
Say large sums will be earmarked for rehab,
Avoid joining Met on Westminster raid.
Don’t take sniffer dogs into spads offices,
Don’t check honourable orifices,
Ignore past ten years of service cut backs.
This laughable Batmanesque persona,
Played out on every daily news channel,
Must have been dreamt up by someone on drugs.
Move seamlessly twixt tragedy and farce,
Back and forth like a giant pendulum,
I’d love the chance to kick him up the arse.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 7th December, 2021.


The Laws, diminished by depravity,
Introduced by indifferent MPs,
Who care not for elderly sick and poor,
Even though they’ll have their photo taken
In hospitals, care homes, and hospices
As displayed humanity signalling,
Are designed to push us ever onwards
Down the road to accepting anything.
So now people over seventy five
Are to be de-prioritised, moved down
The list of societal importance
Because the NHS is in crisis.
This NHS, that we older folk paid
National Insurance contributions
For decades in the belief that it would
At least look after us in our dotage,
Is now being slaughtered on the alter
Of capitalism. Artificial
Smiles at bedsides with shirt sleeves rolled, ties tucked,
Badges displayed, comfort me not one jot.
Propaganda designed to set youngster
Against old, places all blame anywhere
Except where it belongs, Parliament.
Where lies modern scrutiny in these times?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 6th December 2021.


Relaunch Sir Keir again
Hungry for power
Driving Labour Forward
The culmination
Of Keirs conference speech
Going back in time
Launch into the future
Keir has a message
A message for the left
All party members
Your votes now count for nowt
His gang’s decided
Democracy is dead
Now is the right time
To pull your whole house down
Those he ain’t chucked out
He’ll run them out of town
Keir’s on a mission
He has had a vision
He’s snooker loopy
He loves to pot the reds
Forget the Tories
The enemy’s within
Claw one more defeat
Let Johnson off the hook
All on UN day
To support Palestine
Cynical or what?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 30th November, 2021


Prickly Patel is unwelcome,
No seat at the table for her,
Her boss is un-amicable,
No diplomatic dignity,
Disdain for neighbours in Europe,
A Twitter fest from Peppas pal,
Devour her spare ribs down the Mall,
Open fakery bakery,
Where donuts bake new omnicons,
And journos can’t tell rights from wrongs,
Let the vultures manage culture,
Blast made up news to empty pews,
Rerun old backwards videos,
Let’s bask in former afterglows,
Enlist editors over lunch,
Whilst dead bodies float dans La Manche.
Bring back those thoughts of trace, and test,
This Christmas HAS to be THE BEST!

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 28th November, 2021.


Coercion, Consent, Ideology
All clash as chaos rules modernity.
A drunken catfish in rolled up shirt sleeves,
Unmasked in public again and again.
Now, as fog clears, reality revealed,
Behind his tomfoolery and bluster
We see our future cunningly concealed,
Every Brexiteer has been sold a pup,
So too believers in levelling up,
Catfish say one thing then do another,
Adopt new personas willy nilly,
Smile cavernously then swallow us whole.
We see you Catfish, we’ve sussed out your goal.
Oi, Grandad, fetch me your old fishing pole.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom,
25th November 2021.


Your shoes are wearing out
Your pavements are cracked up
Your wages are too low
Your police are corrupt
Your TV is banal
Your life is paranoid
Your health is very poor

Your services don’t work

Your murder rate sky high
Your shock jocks plumb the depths
Your donuts are obscene
Your children are obese
Your buses are not clean
Your malls are out of date
Your cheese just is not cheese
Your country’s on it’s knees

Your politics are shit
Your bandwidth is too slow
Your adverts are not fun
Your arrogance is huge
Your empire has collapsed
Your mayors still cancel votes
You’re at each others throats
Your eyes are full of fear
Your proud boys can still buy
Fresh ammo for their guns
You’re fucked Amerika

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom 21st November 2021.


Somehow freedom got confused with Crowley,
Acquitting Rittenhouse unleashed a wave
Of belief that people have the right to say
“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.”
Responsibility thrown to the wind,
Liberty besmirched, fires of hatred stoked,
Vigilantes given total carte blanche.
Chaos ramped beyond civic control,
A mistake that hindsight paints horrific.
Only when we learned to control ourselves
Did we become able to enjoy freedom,
And stem the pointless loss of human life.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room 19th November 2021


Sidewinders slide under warm desert sun,
Where rubies shine before searing’s begun,
On high talks open to control methane,
Meanwhile leaders still use private planes.
As unfrozen Siberian tundra
Belches trapped gases into the sky,
Permafrost disappears whilst refugees
Burn down forests beside Polish borders.
Blah blah merchants congratulate themselves
On producing one more glossy report
To gather dust in endless bottom drawers,
Militarists fantasise future wars,
Media moguls blow each tiny mind
From their own corner of the metaverse.
Bulbs are soaked ready for implantation
In front of trellis where deck used to be.
Here we live outside of the virtual,
Away from the misrepresentation,
Sheer artificial bloody fakery,
Cooked in Zuckerbergs techno bakery,
Awaiting Spring to birth reality.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 17th November, 2021


Leonard showed us all some puppets,
Bruisers smashed in their canvas rings,
Old men knowing too many things,
Except, of course, who pulled the strings,
Brassicas were not dug by kings,
Nor their queens by the look of things.
And yet their farts the same did stink
As those that have no time to think,
Whose years are spent on what they do
Ensuring pleasure all for you.
We rage about equalities,
Yet still consume vast quantities,
But round the corner change does lie,
Soon there will be no fruit to buy,
The cost of energy sky high,
Fred Hirsch, it seems, had got it right.
Puppeteers string up their new shows,
Bandwagons roll around the globe,
All done in the pursuit of growth.
Limits and social? Forgot both.
Draft another batch of plans,
Pitch faux electric caravans,
Survival blueprints faded now,
We’ll have to slaughter sacred cow.
More puppets carved than Leonard knew,
Yet still we don’t know what to do.
If we did we would soon upend
Pinnochio from number ten.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 12th November 2021.


Goldilocks returns home from lone sojourn
To photo opportunity up north,
Bounds into chamber, folders under arm,
Ready for the fray as any other day.
As if nothing has changed  in any way.
Regular sycophants hoot as ever,
But there is a sullen pool behind him,
Who no longer hang on jolly, bluster
Fueled, words, often spontaneously spoke.
His jokey aphorisms work no more.
Triangulators plot to bring him down.
Goldilocks still believes his depraved charm
Will carry him on, never be betrayed,
Subtly, knives, slowly plunged, fill his back.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 12th November 2021.


See the briar creeping around the field,
It might prick you and it might make you bleed,
But if you wait, let it grow tall and strong,
Then it will please you, fill another need,
Help it grow right up the side of your house,
Tangle through branches of your old beech hedge
Let it wander where it’s wild way will go,
You’re gonna love it when it makes it’s show.

When the roses bloom
When the roses bloom
That’s when I’m happy
When the roses bloom

I watch honey bees flying to and fro
Picking up pollen, always on the go
One time one might sting you, might cause you pain,
But they’ll ignore you, keep out of their way,
With any luck they’ll come to your roses,
Somehow these mighty workers know the score,
For month after month follow their noses,
They make royal jelly using natures law.

When the honey comes
When the honey comes
That’s when I’m happy
When the honey comes

Outside is gloomy, skies are icy grey
Winter days are so cold, the grass sodden,
Gales do blow, trees shed their leaves, branches creak,
Daylight fades early, only robins cheep,
The cold winds stop blowing across the hills
Winter rains fall no more, leaves are on the trees,
Sunshine beats down, oh how the grass does grow,
But how the smell of mowing cheers me so.

When the summer comes
When the summer comes
That’s when I’m happy
When the summer comes.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 10th November 2021


Wot? No Mask?
Just a late night demo.

The art of puppetry revealed
As I walked slow across the field
Inside my mind the clouds didst clear
The truth will always conquer fear.

Tsunami roars from bent tea cup.
The coward with his sleeves rolled up,
A trick he learned from Tony Blair,
Walking the ward, flicks back his hair,

He spaffs some guff on booster jab
A sad, pathetic, Tory scab,
Three hundred miles from Downing Street,
Yet still he does not smell defeat.

This Eton boy won’t say sorry,
Time to hire removal lorry.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 8th November 2021


Wild swimming in stormy weather,
In runoff filled tributary,
Across sewage strewn flood plain,
Westminster wet suit wearers wail,
Whilst anti bacterial soup
Spills out mouth of estuary
Into warm plastic filled ocean.
Tory wibbly wobbly surfers
Wiped out up shit creek, paddleless,
Out of sex wax, their points broken,
Now washed up along Brextit beach,
Unrescued by private life guards,
Drowned by their own corrupt bow wave,
Another day in Johnson’s cove.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 6th November 2021.


This tousled blonde ersatz aristocrat,
Who practices depraved indifference,
Against our own elder generations,
In teeth of struggle against pandemic,
Revealed as faux Charlemagne déshabillé,
Perceives himself to be an emperor
Bestride global stage, jetting privately
Twixt conference and fancy restaurant,
To plot and scheme with press idolator,
Recognised as buffoon by leader peers,
Rants of fairness and natural justice
To protect crooked coconspirator
Caught with fingers jammed in lobbying till,
Destroys last pretence of democracy.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 4th November 2021.


Call out all the VIP contractors
Those sharks that even now, at this late hour,
Rip the last dregs out of public service.
More vicious than a clan of hyenas,
They cackle as they strip flesh from the bones
Of New Labour’s hard working families.
Socially responsible zeitgeist pies
Pulverised by desert winds and Randians
Who care for nothing but their nihilist lives.
Circus activists gather in Glasgow,
Tory advisors peddle alibis,
Africans suffer from more Covid lies.
Only on the streets might a truth be found,
Everyone and their dog hears trumpet sounds,
Old Bill stand ready to smash underground,
Use new statutes from their merry go round.
Somewhere across some other side of town
New chimneys go up as old ones fall down,
The Queen takes a break from wearing her crown
And sharing the stage with BoJo the clown.
Next week the news will be wrapped round our chips,
Our fish protected by British gun ships.
Joe Biden signs new arms deals with Turkey,
Behind scenes meta verses grow murky,
Stirred by digital aristocracy,
Wonder at our Modern Democracy.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 1st November 2021.


Recorded live first take at Scene Red band practice in Harriboy’s Hut on my smart phone in January 2022

I can’t hug the past anymore,
Just picked my heart up from the floor
Cwtch me as I walk through your door
Cwtch me like you used to before

Cwtch me in the now
Where I long to be
I will Cwtch you back
Like it used to be

Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me in the now.

There’s no going back in my memory
I’ve lost the road map back through history,
I can’t remember where we used to be,
Saw faded photo of you cwtching me,

Cwtch me in the now
Where I long to be
I will Cwtch you back
Like it used to be

Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me in the now
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me
Cwtch me in the now.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 31st October 2021


Age of Opportunity came and went,
Only a few people on the inside
Had any inkling of its existence.
Those that did filled their boots, and their pockets
In an anti-competitive frenzy,
Contracts dished out to friends and family
With no hint of any monitoring.
Levelling up on a slippery slope
Where long covid lurks awaiting more prey.
Pale, invisible to hard working folk,
Ready to remind us of when Joe sang
Of Thatcher’s career opportunities,
D’you remember? Those ones that never knocked?
And Johnson claps like a clockwork monkey.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom 28th October 2021.


You say “I will survive”.
You spout out loud “I’m fit, it won’t kill me”.
Revel in “I’m alive”.
Freedom of individuals to say,
“Do what thou wilt! OKAY?”
“For it is me, not you, I care about,
There is no other way”.
Stand high on platforms, surround with cyphers,
Know they believe your “truth”,
Swim in your chamber pot filled with echoes
Of shite from Q Anon.
Watch pandemic roll behind COP 26,
You say it’s all over,
Now it is time for proper Christmas,
Don’t bother with fake jabs,
Strut in your “Masks off, let’s be real” tee shirt,
Invite all to party,
Into new normal at dawn of world’s end,
It’s the Randian way.
Waltz as only pandemoniacs can,
Spaced out on disbelief,
Where the whole of our law is meaningless,
Even now you don’t know,
You’re the epitome of selfishness.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 27th October 2021


There’s a red list of species gonna die
Heat will kill them no matter what we try,
There was this thing that made me sit and cry,
When we said bye bye to the last Aye Aye
Bye bye to the Aye Aye
Wave bye bye last Aye Aye
Bye bye to the Aye Aye
Couldn’t save the Aye Aye
As spiders destroy webs in an eclipse,
Elites pick up fiddles whilst we all burn,
Blonde bombshell splutters piss poor Wall Street joke,
As his cabinet sells new pig in poke,
Kerala houses crushed in mud slide cloak,
Whilst spun out spads chop out new lines of coke.
The last Aye Aye wheedles out the final grub
Masked up congregation piss up in pub,
Give not two fucks for Aye Aye,
Soon we’re all waving bye bye,
Burn coal, pump oil, wave bye bye,
Our fate same as the Aye Aye.
I pour one last smokey malt,
Toast bye bye to the Aye Aye.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 23rd October 2021.


Ghosts of beano revellers ride waltzers,
Howling as they wave their kiss me quick hats,
Drunk on Essex bought milk and alcohol,
They rave towards new end of the pier show,
In latest brightly lit city of dreams,
Built on whelks, cockles, mussels, jellied eels,
Candy floss, ice cream, pink peppermint rock.
Wraith like charabancs queue at the Kursaal
To ferry the hoards of cockney spectres
In and out of phantasia on sea,
To and from the greatest pubs of London.
Equality now achieved with Clacton,
The feel good factor rolled out so quickly,
After murder of MP in Southend.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 20th October 2021.


This is no time now to consult the past,
These times are pressing on down,
Small steps are not what we need to save us,
When we’re running out of time,
Slowly slowly gets left further behind,
As lighting strikes heavier.
To run around with our hands in the air,
Deny we know what is true,
Ask all and sundry what is to be done?
Console ourselves that it takes a long time?
How long? How long? How ‘king long?
Tell truth, spread news, help people help themselves,
This is what needs to be done.
Recognise that the hour’s getting late,
No time to procrastinate.
No time left to start all over again,
Actions speak louder than words.
We’re here, in the heart of catastrophe,
The toffs have to level down.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom 16th October 2021.


At first water tickles as it trickles
Over river edge along stone fissures
Through muddy pools towards rock strewn gullies.
This titillation lasts but a minute
Soon swollen Teifi torrent overwhelms,
My green pathway quickly unpassable.
Millions of gallons of brown water
Swept on for miles from Strata Florida,
Llanbedr Pont Steffan, fields in between,
Washes dark soil from roots of mighty trees
Before tossing giants into maelstrom
Thence on to pile up at Henllan Bridge.
Many storms have ravaged my thoroughfare
Over hundreds of wet millennia.
Black agricultural plastic sheets drape
Leaf stripped branches alongside tattered white
Supermarket bags, orange nylon ropes,
Drowned sheep, smashed creosote stained bothy walls,
All carried irresistibly forwards
In this rip roaring Pandemonium
Into a new rock crushing existence.
Coracles and kayaks no more will ply
Gentle eddies and lazy green shallows.
The full force of Global warming horror
At last, finally, fully realised.
I am one defiled valley of many,
Where humans will never walk dogs again.
This is how life inevitably ends,
Sadly mankind did bring it on themselves,
I grow deeper through sedimental rocks.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 12th October 2021.


Scene Red at The Powerhouse 6/10/21 – Pic by Jill Gough

Scene Red played at the Book Launch of You Are Still Here, a poetry collection by Harry Rogers, on 6th October 2121. The night before we rehearsed in Harriboy’s Hut and I recorded the session on my OnePlus 6 phone. Here is an EP of the Scene Red songs we played now up on Bandcamp.


Everywhere we all wait for
Start of breaking good,
Time when there is threat no more
In our neighbourhoods.
As patriots turn stupid wars
Into Hollywood
People cheering  outside their doors
‘Cos they think they should.
Stand and watch a self chosen boor
Do what Tony would,
Spill centrist bile across the floor,
Just because he could.
In Liverpool now evermore
Kier’s blown it for good,
Words in The Sun stuck in our craw,
They boil up our blood,
We’ll burn them by the quire for sure,
On bonfires of wood.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, October 3rd, 2021.


There are no Americans in Paris,
Neither Brits nor rangey Australians,
English is not spoken in Montmartre,
Diplomats now forego diplomacy,
Machinery of war economy
Grinds relentlessly across China sea.
We have stupidly signed up to Aukus
An attempt to gain some sort of trade deal
To be Trumpeted as Brexit success.
How many people buy into these lies,
Is totally unclear, but MSM
Blow smoke up our arseholes morning and night.
Meanwhile watch as a lava stream trickles
Down the volcano into swimming pool.

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 22nd September 2021.


I watch as you fish for ghosts
Try to keep the past alive
Search for comfort in the wreckage
Even though you know it’s not there,
Ghost fishing
Takes you nowhere
Ghost fishing
Leads you nowhere
You cannot live in yesterday
For yesterday’s already dead
You’ll never change what you find there
You’ll destroy what’s inside your head
Ghost Fishing
Leads you nowhere
Ghost fishing
Takes you nowhere
You want to be happy? Live now,
Plan for the future but live now,
Accept all your own history,
Take it from one who knows the score
Ghost fishing
Takes you nowhere
Ghost fishing
Won’t bring you care

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 20th September 2021


Monday afternoon feels like a Sunday,
I scan postcards from the bigger picture,
Recognise panic in minister’s voice,
Confusion rules in his radio speech.
So many roads lead back to fuckedupness,
Energy costs rise like Elon’s rockets,
Vegetable crops rot unpicked in Norfolk,
Benefits cut as food bank queues lengthen,
Covid death toll rises same as last year,
Once more our nerd heads for immunity,
Paranoia verges on lunacy,
Mock Churchill reshuffles yes brigade pack
As he spaffs untold dosh on submarines.
Meanwhile one more Indian Summer ends.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 16th September 2021.


Demo with guitar from Matt Williams, many thanks.

In mid afternoon late summer sunlight
Soft breeze blows dandelion seed snowstorm
Across baked rain starved lawns and limpid hedgerows.
Hot air arrives from Southern Spanish plains.
Hottest September day for sixty years
In Wales. Even Aberbanc sparrows hide
In darkest corners deep inside bushes.
Biggest tractor I’ve seen roars down main street
In Newcastle Emlyn. Outside Y Cwtch
I drink coffee, eat cake, read Laurie Lee,
I remember in nineteen sixty three,
Shoplifting some banned English language books.
Johnny Angel and I read them beneath
Shady Plane trees on the banks of the Seine.
Warm air softly caressed us then as now,
Tractors were smaller then, coffee cheaper,
Emlyn ain’t Paris but way the air moved,
Segued a Madeleine moment in me.
Reverie broken by shiny blue beast,
I’m jolted back to Ceredigion,
Where it gets hotter as each hour goes by.
Tomorrow thunderstorms are forecasted,
Meanwhile I get mask ready for shopping.

Harry Rogers, on the pavement in Newcastle Emlyn, 7th September 2021.


Sunset over Texas

Home on the range Texas Vigilantes
Roam around hunting abortion bounties.
New state laws give licence to extremists.
Now begins end of civil liberty,
In a country where all can tote a gun
Visualise a new Pandemonium.
It’s the end of order as women lose,
Their hard fought for Roe v Wade right to choose.
Supreme court washes hands of decision,
Chaos deliberate, with precision
Ignore rules, bury the constitution,
Clog up the courts, deny restitution.
Back door invasion,tattered old glory,
White Christian men now control the story,
Witness end of new world as we knew it,
Rampant conservativism blew it.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 6th September 2021.


Clever dick radio journos
Push their political process.
They ask elephant trap questions,
Talk over the top of answers,
Nick Robinson crows each morning,
Bullies those he disagrees with,
Slaps down the chances of progress,
His haughtiness plain to be seen.
Not that questions are not valid,
Nor that they should never be asked,
It’s his manner that I object to,
Supercilious in extreme,
Atop his mountain built of sneers,
Irreverence assaults our ears,
He tears them down then lashes out,
Puts the boot in with acid tongue.
Each day, dismissive of alt views,
This ghoul manipulates the news,
He’s got it down to perfection,
Each piece shaped to his direction,
Smiles kindly on those that agree
With his version of history,
But try to pose alternate view
Then he will piss all over you,
His viciousness flows beyond bounds,
Listen again, BBC Sounds,
Oh for that day when we can hear,
Another viewpoint expressed clear,
Not trampled by establishment
Stooges who ape their government.
We pay to maintain status quo,
It’s how they shape the world we know.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 3rd September 2021.


Demo track of The Hidden Path

Look for the hidden path
Search out the hidden path
Run down the hidden path
True love the hidden path

Love is something we all can find
Love is something for all mankind
Love is something, feels much better
Love is somewhere in a letter
Love is something when it is found
Love is something which will turn around
Love is something to make us laugh
Love is somewhere down a hidden path

Look for the hidden path
Search out the hidden path
Run down the hidden path
True love the hidden path

Love is something we cannot hide
Love is something a blushing bride
Love is something within our head
Love is somewhere inside our bed
Love is something we want so much
Love is something, a gentle touch
Love is something with which to heal
Love is somewhere we can reveal

Look for the hidden path
Search out the hidden path
Run down the hidden path
True love the hidden path

Harry Rogers, in the old study, 2012


Is this the end of all reason?
End of democracy season?
Where critics are tried for treason?
Unstuck beyond cohesion?
Assange says we’re last of the free.
The last to choose who we can be,
It’s death of the concept of me,
A I writes our new history.
Now, as the planet is burning,
I still have a certain yearning,
For days before machine learning,
Where ink filled pages are turning.
Governments give themselves access
To all our data in practice,
Feed minds with fake news in excess,
Breed ignorance of their praxis.
Is this the last throw of the dice?
We must become lions not mice,
Not enough to say “Please be nice,”
Somehow we must loosen their vice.
When nothing is quite what it seems,
Where tyrants manipulate dreams,
And castles are built of ice creams,
We can’t hear the most silent screams.
Perhaps it’s a little too late,
Maybe there’s too much on our plate,
Come, gather the good and the great,
One last chance, keep open the gate.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 23rd August 2021.


Fallacies fly across airwaves again,
Foreign policies broadcast day and night,
Newspeak rife, failure spun as success,
Witness chronic analysis abuse,
Across the mainstream media platforms.
Bombers for democracy gain traction,
Extreme centrists cloaked up in denial,
Former leaders praised up for their actions.
Arms contractors have stuffed themselves with gold,
Blood and treasure, of which we’re seldom told,
Truth now one more propaganda victim,
Reality swamped by fake journo lies.
This the twenty first century pity,
No-one accepts responsibility.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 22nd August 2021


Trawlers are active over your accounts,
They search for evidence to throw you out.
The party is under new management.
Those meetings on Zoom that you attended
All of them will have to be defended.
The party is under new management.
Those votes that you made to change policy
Consigned to dustbin of history.
The party is under new management.
Were you once in a room with Mr Corbyn?
Did you discuss human rights in Gaza?
You don’t have the right to investigate
Alternate positions, nor to conflate.
The party is under new management.
Everything now has become crystal clear,
You can’t contradict the word of Sir Keir.
The party is under new management.
If you feel upset no need to worry,
We’ll point you towards the Samaritans.
The party is under new management.
Gone are those days when your voice could be heard,
They’re checking you out, every single word.
The party is under new management.
They’ve replaced all thoughts of democracy,
Welcome to New Labour autocracy.
The party is under new management.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 21st August 2021.


Yesterday extreme centrists surpassed themselves.
Such a denial of responsibility,
Beyond Blair’s propensity to spin history.
One after another acclamations rained down.
Self congratulations for the Party’s good work
In Afghanistan, where people needed their help.
Reality meaningless when America
Has pulled the plug on global never ending war.
The use of force to impose ideology
Inextricably bound to failure in long run.
Weaponising of western liberalism
A patronising folly of rotten judgement.
Untold gallons of blood, shed year in, and year out,
As arms entrepreneurs revelled in abandon.
Corrupt political privateers filled their boots,
Whilst social experiments ran onto the rocks.
Outside of urban elites poverty prevailed,
Propaganda victory handed on a plate.
These days imperialists watch too much telly,
They’ve forgotten to read their Machiavelli.
Regime change comes not from capitalist steeple,
Usually it stems from the heart of the people.

Harry Rogers in The Red Bedroom, 19th August 2021.


The uprising
The uprising
Of 1831

Merthyr Tydfil
Merthyr Tydfil
In 1831

Give us cheese
Give us bread
In 1831

Flying the flags
Of deep blood red
In 1831

The uprising
The uprising
Of 1831

A flowering
Of the people
In 1831

Dic Penderyn
He stood so brave
In 1831

Innocent man
Sent to his grave
In 1831

Merthyr Rising
Takes us all back
To 1831

Brings spirits back
Where they belong
In 1831

Red Poet’s read
Strong polemics
Of 1831

Once more we raise
Loaves up on sticks
Like 1831

Merthyr Rising
Merthyr Rising
Now Rising up as one

As the people did
Brave people did
In 1831

We shall not lie
Down in the mud
We will rise up as one

Still fly the flags
Of deep red blood
From 1831

Harry Rogers, Pencnwcau, late night, 24 October 2018.


Accusations rain down hard in New York,
A song and dance man skips through smoke and fire.
Memory’s faded fifty six years on,
Tambourines clash, rolling stone gathers moss.
Approach Eden’s gate, boots no longer fit,
Perhaps the highway now leads on to hell.
Question marks abound, truth told or liar,
From the lost days at the Chelsea Hotel.
Whither now poet from Minnesota?
Time tangles, water muddies, luck runs out.
Apologists fill up their pens with ink,
Lexicologists trawl through every verse,
Searching for clues, or havens to shelter
From storms, hurricanes, perhaps even worse.

Harry Rogers, Y Cwtch, 17th August 2021


I watch the Afghan bourgeoisie
Funnel through airport lounge and flee.
Earlier, the same old story,
Leader flew wrapped in “Old Glory”.
The Taliban have won, of course,
And now? They have their own air force.
Low grade British politicians
Squabble with bankrupt positions.
Tory, Lib-Dem, right wing Labour,
Government by US sabre.
From Downing Street nothing is heard,
The whole thing now becomes absurd.
Parliament is to be recalled,
Too late to undo mistakes old.
Kabul staff climb onto chopper,
Western leaders come a cropper.
It’s lackaday for poor Old Joe,
And Johnson, though you’d never know.
New caliphate now has risen,
Yet Bush and Blair? Not in prison,
People asking “What was this for?”
“Did we need this illegal war?”
Fortunes have been salted away,
The killings ramp up every day.
We eat our first crop of courgettes,
We know we ain’t seen nothing yet.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 16th August 2021


Through half closed eyes things are more than they seem,
I’m in a Pembrokeshire National Park dream
I ride an Unbroken Pony today,
This first time he carries me clean away,
Over Preseli Hills we run and run,
True freedom we share, wild horse and tame man.
A hobby flies from Africa, on high,
Chases a swallow across crystal sky,
Grasshoppers all around me do chirrup,
I whoop loud as I stand in the stirrup,
Murders in Plymouth, bad climate change news,
Taliban takeover, more Covid blues,
All left behind in this sweet reverie,
Would it were real, if you know what I mean.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 14th August 2021.


Churchill sent his troops into Llanelli,
For to break up a railway workers strike
1911, a militant year,
When people earned much more than they were paid.
In Britain, one in ten, outside the gates,
Workers ranked together on picket lines,
Seamen and dockers, colliers, miners,
Pre first world war working class radicals
Stood strong, side by side, as they fought for change.
Churchill, ruthless, ordered fixed bayonets
To be used on the streets of Llanelli.
Some jumped up nob mumbled riot act words,
Quiet, so most people there never heard,
Naked iron fists slid from velvet gloves.
After one warning shot, fired over heads,
Tin plater, Jac, fell dead in Llanelli
With English lead pumped into his belly,
All told six lay dead, hundreds more wounded,
As London released it’s Leviathan.
Churchill had acted as Thomas Hobbes taught,
Keep people in order with only one thought,
Keep all in awe of terror of the sword,
As they made martyrs they sang praise the lord.
Nothing Churchill did
will ‘ere be forgot,
This butcher of comrades he ordered shot,
As they fought for our rights in Llanelli.
When they died for our rights in Llanelli.
This precursive act, and so many more,
Prefigured mass slaughter in first world war,
Workers lives come cheap throughout history,
As they did on the streets of Llanelli.
Stay staunch now comrades, keep singing our songs,
We won’t forget them, their fight carries on,
Our heroes on the streets of Llanelli.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 19th July 2021.

I will be reading this poem at this Live Poets Society Event on Monday 16th August at 7.00pm British Summer Time.


Turn the party inside out
Flush those lefties down the drain,
This is what they’re all about,
Bring back Tony Blair again.
Nevermind illegal war,
Dubya pacts and cluster bombs,
This is what they’re really for,
Rebuild New Labour fiefdoms.
Let the housing market rip,
Wrap up warm in union jacks,
Occupy ground from UKIP,
Sell their soul to right wing hacks.
There is no alternative,
Once more party battle cry,
Mandelson and Kinnock live,
No red clouds in clear blue sky.
Throw the unions to the dogs,
Wear business suits, shoot a cuff,
Write in Sun, on Tory blogs,
Spin Ayn Rand like Call My Bluff.
Outside I deplore these ghouls,
Who tricked us with PFIs,
Again wouldst take us for fools,
Watch out for fake alibis.
On the left we’re mourning still
The Corbyn interruption,
I’ll not be back, had my fill
Of careerist corruption.

Harry Rogers, Edwinstowe, 7th August 2021.


I saw a German woman on the news say that nature is angry.
She stood beside the wreckage of her home as dirty brown torrent swept under a nearby bridge.
She is clearly devastated, as are thousands of people in Germany, Belgium, France and Holland.
Houses swept away, cars and lorries swept away, roads, motorways, railways, infrastructure all ripped up.
I understand how people can say that nature is angry, as if nature is a being.
One can walk this earth for decades, nature, not being sentient, behaves anarchically.
No matter how much we, as a species, might convince ourselves of our ability to control nature, or the weather, we find that to be a fallacy.
What we appear to be good at is continuously demonstrating a propensity to act without thought of consequences, especially where the well being of the planet is concerned.
As the heat waves rage, rather than question our own actions, humans rush to buy air conditioning units, ever bigger refrigeration cabinets with built in ice makers and smart chips to inform us when we are running low on produce.
On a macro level politicians and developers prance around implementing dreamscapes from the misguided minds of ambitious 20th Century mindset architects and planners, designed for a vision of society that ultimately is destructive in a myriad of ways.
We need to move on from concrete and glass phallic symbols lancing cityscape skies as legacies of power obsessed, careerist, oligarchs.
The production of concrete is, in itself, a process that is responsible for 7.5% of global warming. And yet this “miracle” product is the go to material for projects large and small across the planet.
When I look back sixty five years to that time when I, as a ten year old boy, first looked at The Queens House and The Royal Maritime Museum from outside the Royal Observatory, in Greenwich Park, it stood alone and majestic against a backdrop of low level London. Now the legacy to Thatcherism monstrosity that is the Canary Wharf development defiles that view in an act of pure vandalism that is hard to surpass. The more time that passes the more jaded that whole area looks. It is a crime against aesthetic beauty. Concrete junkie architects are, even now, designing ever more paens to brutalism in cities across the planet. Prizes are offered for the most innovative use of concrete. The production of cement is helping to destroy the planet through contributing towards global warming, but it is also responsible for some of the most hideous buildings in history, and this rotten Tory government wants to make such development even easier to implement by relaxing planning rules and regulations.
I won’t be here in sixty years time, but I dread to imagine what the view from the foot of General Wolfe’s Statue in Greenwich Park will look like then.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 5th August 2021.


Me in 1948

Words come hard now my elder family
members are deceased. I now am eldest.
The realisation that I am next
in line for the morgue, for eternal sleep,
weighs, heavily, as I try to recall.
I think about those now gone before me.
Moments remembered now only by me,
shared solely between me and them alone.
Tenderness, laughter, anger, fun and love.
Many thoughts flood my mind in a jumble
of unconnected images and sounds.
Weddings, Birthdays, Christmas time, and parties.
Those days, long gone, only I know about.
Holidays, tete a tetes in restaurants,
songs played just for me at the piano.
Wee Willie Harris on Six Five Special,
in black and white in grandmother’s kitchen,
air rifles and golf clubs in grandad’s shed,
cigarettes, brandy and Coty L’Aimant,
every last one of them stood round the font.
Mostly the waters we sailed on were smooth.
Rarely did storms rage, well not openly.
Now that I’ve risen on high, from beneath,
do I understand how mortal is grief.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 4th August 2021.


Locked away in your poison cabinet
Are those thoughts never knowingly revealed.
Where they came from nobody will ever know.
No matter who tries to storm your ramparts,
Your impregnable castle remains safe.
The only way anyone gets access,
Is those times when you leave your drawbridge down.
Poe like imps and tricksters hide in corners,
Ready to whisper fake thoughts to beguile
You into morose, and pain filled, actions.
Don’t want to be part of your domesday book,
Nor caught up in your hurtful sideways look,
Sit by your open fire, live in your past,
Rewrite history, as life flies by fast.
Miss out on good times, the laughter and fun,
You’ll never know as backwards you run.
Time runs out,
Time runs out,
Now is now,
Then was then.
Time and again,
Time is up,
Clocks run down,

Harry Rogers In the Yellow Room, 31st July 2021.


Falling Out Of Love With Love recorded with Steve Young and Andrew Howell in Frome in 2016.

Saw the news today, dunno what to say

Dropping barrel bombs where the children play

Sell arms to tyrants just because they pay

We’re falling out of love with love today

Yemenis, Syrians, Iraqis, Kurds

All are now victims of misguided words

Those religious partisans tend their herds

Where people once were freer than the birds

I wish they would stop

Falling out of love with love

I wish we could stop

Falling out of love with love



Falling out of love with love

My daughter said why can’t we get along?

Why can’t we all sing the same happy song?

All this senseless killing is so plain wrong

People just want somewhere they can belong

Outsiders look on whilst the wild wind blows

When it will end? Well now, nobody knows.

Right across the world we keep on our toes

As all this stupid mayhem grows and grows

I wish they would stop

Falling out of love with love

I wish we could stop

Falling out of love with love



Falling out of love with love

Harry Rogers: In Harriboy’s Hut, Aberbanc – 22nd September 2016


The lord works in mysterious ways,
What, when, where, who, how,
Things change all the time,
Sometimes for the best,
Now Billy Graham’s grandson got Covid,
Another Christian test
Don’t matter if you pray,
Hallelujah every day,
Covid”s gonna get ya,
Every whichey way.
You can go to the mountain top,
Sing from the highest tower,
This plague will never stop,
By week, by day, by hour,
Even Billy Graham’s grandson got Covid,
Like Boris and the Donald,
Nobody’s safe no more,
This ain’t a spirit war.
Billy Graham’s grandson got Covid
Now he knows the score,
Billy Graham’s grandson got Covid
It’s part of God’s law.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 26th July 2021.


Sat in Club Med Aberbanc
We’re baked beyond Alaska,
In our room with two foot walls
It’s over twenty five degrees,
Across the hills pregnant clouds
Scud by day by day by day
Never birth one drop of rain
All our grass has turned to hay.
Lazy buzzards ride thermals
On high way above our plot
We melt here, it’s too damn hot,
We got the drizabone blues,
Oh yeah,
Sure got the drizabone blues,
Ooohh weee
Those drizabone blues again.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 25th July 2021.


I sit in shade of prunus hedge,
The sound of Satie’s Gnossiene number four dribbles from my phone. I look across the valley towards the three stationary wind turbines on the horizon that undulates across the sky. For days now the temperature has been in the mid nineties and the air has been still, the sky an unblemished azure. This is about to change, there is a breeze, the red leaves on the hedge tremble in expectation. If anything it’s getting hotter and a hazy mist imperceptibly fills the valley. Fluffy white clouds appear from nowhere, they billow and form a ridge as if a giant invisible steam engine is at work. No birds fly and have stopped singing, even the crows are skwawkless, they know something is coming. The breeze increases, the underneath of the cotton wool ball clouds are tinged with grey. But… it doesn’t come, no thunder, no lightning, the clouds fade away as quickly as they came, the relentless sunshine is back. Two magpies sqawk to each other, the silence is broken, the breeze fades away. It’s another sticky night in prospect in the hills in Aberbanc. Maybe we’ll see rain tomorrow, or on Sunday. The weather has gone awry, I ponder this as a handful of swifts systematically fly two feet above the field picking off confused insects along the way. I take the hose pipe to the beans and the courgettes, seeing as mother nature ain’t about to do the honours.

Harry Rogers, 23rd July 2021.


Sometimes I write a song I want to sing.
There are songs I know I will never sing,
Because I know about the pain they’ll bring,
It doesn’t do to sing of everything.
But when that pain is trapped inside of me,
I lay it bare for all the world to see.
Catharsis helps restore normality,
Pain’s better out than in, it seems to me,
Hidden in darkling corners of my mind,
I never know exactly what I’ll find,
I drag pain into the light from behind
Curtains closed by actions truly unkind.
If I don’t sing about the way I feel,
There is no way that I can ever heal.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 24th July 2021.


More and more people work from home, this is a lyric for post covid Zoomers who’ve been lucky enough to find the escape map.

Welcome to Zoomville On Sea,
Goodbye sardine train commute,
Home office overlooks beach,
New garden is full of fruit,
Car in garage, seldom used,
Away from big smoke air is clean,
Even the kids are amused,
Happier than ever been,
We’re happy here
Zoomville On Sea
So happy here
Zoomville On Sea
Goodbye to old office stress,
Farewell politics of hate,
No more dressing to impress,
Impossible to be late,
We’ve both got a comfy chair,
With views beside the windows,
New lives, with time to care,
To see which way the wind blows.
Zoomville On Sea
We’re happy here
Zoomville On sea
So happy here.
Zoomville On Sea,
You here by me,
It’s a new life,
Could be for life,
Next to the beach.
Zoomville On Sea.

Harry Rogers, in The Yellow Room, 22nd July 2021.


Freedom’s just another word
For let’s go out and booze,
Let’s go out, get off our tits,
There’s nothing left to lose.
All the pike are smiling as
They leap upon the floor,
Next day turn into spreaders,
Minnows seen it all before.
They see themselves as martyrs,
Who deserve to go and play,
Throw caution to the four winds,
As they rave on freedom day.
Glitter balls and ticker tape,
Midnight countdowns, sweaty hugs,
Best time of their hemmed in lives,
Callow kids with shoulder shrugs.
“We’ve got our lives back again,
It’s what we have waited for.”
I watch news convulsed with shock,
Now paranoid evermore.
I do not begrudge them fun
Remember I was once young,
But how quick this recklessness,
Feeds into the greater mess.
Now, once more, I hunker down,
Scared to venture into town,
Self inflict isolation,
From younger generation.
No more ice creams on the beach,
Normality out of reach.
Don’t trust herd experiment,
Seems we don’t have any choice,
Eugenicist government,
Cares not for our elder voice.

Harry Rogers, 73 and three quarters, in The Red Bedroom, 20th July 2021


Freedom Day?
Freedom from what?
Freedom to do what?
Freedom at what cost
Freedom for whom?
Freedom in where?
Return to normal?
What is normal?
When was normal?
Who was normal?
Who isn’t normal?
Who determines normal?
What is power?
Who has power?
How did they get power?
Why did they want power?
How do we remove power?
Whence came power?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 17th July 2021.