THE HAND HOLDING BOYS OF ORLANDO

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.

THE HAND HOLDING BOYS OF ORLANDO

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

WHERE BLUEBELLS BLOOM

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

TWADDLE TALK

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.

TWADDLE TALK

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

PONZI SOLITAIRE

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

STAY STAUNCH

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.

UNBROKEN PONIES

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, https://scenered.bandcamp.com/album/tales-from-dolwion . 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

Meanwhile,
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

ANOTHER RESET COMING SOON.

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.

WAITING FOR THE TIDE TO TURN

I’M SITTING IN THE ANCHOR AND HOPE

DRINKING WHITE SHIELD WORTHINGTONS

THE BOY FRANKY’S MOORED AT THE QUAY

AND I’M STARING OVER BUGSBY’S REACH

I ALREADY KNOW SHE’S LEAVING ME

GUESS THAT’S WHY I’M GETTING DRUNK

THE RIVER LOOKS A GOLDEN PICTURE

A RED SAILED BARGE HEADS INTO THE SUN

I CAN’T CRY NO MORE

I KNOW IT’S OVER

I CAN’T CRY NO MORE

I KNOW IT’S OVER

THERE IS A ONE EYED RIVER CAT

SLEEPING ON A COILED UP ROPE

JOHNNY EDGE SITS IN THE SUNSHINE

SPINNING UP MY LAST PIECE OF DOPE

OLD NORTON FROM THE BOAT YARD

TELLS US SOME CLAPPED OUT JOKE

I’M WAITING FOR THE TIDE TO TURN

BEFORE I SAIL OFF A SINGLE BLOKE

I CAN’T CRY NO MORE

I KNOW IT’S OVER

I CAN’T CRY NO MORE

I KNOW IT’S OVER

WHEN YOU CAN’T CRY NO MORE

YOU KNOW THAT IT’S OVER 

WHEN YOU CAN’T CRY NO MORE

YOU KNOW THAT IT’S OVER

I’M WAITING FOR THE TIDE TO TURN

I’M WAITING FOR THE TIDE TO TURN

I’M WAITING FOR THE TIDE TO TURN

BEFORE I SAIL OFF A SINGLE BLOKE