Nineteen Sixty Seven, Summer Of Love,
Early morning Barbican picket line,
A coach load of strike breaker scabs at Myton,
Forced through by City of London police.
Young plumbing shop steward bangs on windows,
He shouts “Scab, scab, scab, dirty rotten scabs”.
Old Bill grab him and drag him to their van.
Powerless I watch from a ways away,
Two cops held his arm, one more jumped on it,
These three bastards broke it in three places.
That was my political turning point,
When I understood power of the state,
How their force is used to smash us all down,
Terrify workers, keep them in their place.
I’ll never forget such brutality,
Fifty five years later, still militant,
I support striking comrades in struggle,
I always will, until my dying day.
Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 30th August 2022