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Your malls are out of date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.


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.


Will we ever know their secrets?
These sly folks that rule our rulers,
The ones way back behind the scenes,
Anonymous to all but Queens,
Future kings, selected MPs,
High ranked spads and civil servants,
Cross party, beyond politics,
Above democratic control.
Part of a giant Ponzi scheme,
Designed to create illusions
Of genuine access to change.
An old friend of mine once told me
“Understanding our system is
Akin to trying to knit fog.”
Special advice from researchers
Gives documents a key word gloss,
Commons library table creaks
Under sheer weight of paper bills.
Subtle nuances abounding
A myriad of gaslighting
Phrases to aid bamboozlers,
Written under extreme pressure,
Mostly unread, then stored away,
Added to historic mountains,
Laws that await fevered usage
In debates within status quo.
Behind the veil of ignorance
Bliss fueled rhetoric purveyors
Spaff and bluster as walls crumble.
Cherry pick as midnight oils burn,
Latest wheeze, slung upon the pile,
Designed to make the people yearn
For fake impossibilities,
Squared circle hope filled elixirs,
Obfusticated essences,
Blind belief that things will improve,
We can all start levelling up.
Only some are on the level,
Mostly we’re on slippery slopes,
Horizons crooked from the start.
Watch as Atlas shrugs in the dark.

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


My friend, George, said that Johnson and Patel et al are just not up to the job following the latest twin fiascos re racism and masks,tossers.
I respond as follows:-
What is the job as they see it? These Tories wheel out confidence tricksters such as Schapps to smooth over cracks with silver tongued apologies on breakfast Radio Four etc. It’s the nasty underbelly of our society that has never unpicked white chauvinism, even by non white Tories. It’s like even though we no longer have an empire we are still consumed by imperialist mores, a kind of long imperialism that is not properly understood by many. It’s heartwarming to see footballers, black and white together, taking on deep seated prejudice directly and consistently, calling out the bullies in the full glare of public scrutiny. Such bravery is rare but this feels like a turning point, bullies hate confrontation, but confront them we must. It’s time to paint racists into an ever decreasing corner and I admire the England football squad for their stand. Football isn’t coming home, it never went away, those sick fucks in the white supremacist parties who have invaded the terraces since the 1960s have to be called out, as must their fellow travellers in the Conservative party, who are, indeed, tossers.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 14th July 2021.


The bunting, the flags, now folded away,
Footballers live to play another day.
Next year embark on new world cup caper,
Euro defeat yesterday’s chip paper.
Meanwhile penalties humiliation
Starkly revealed the worst of a nation.
Those that point fingers and apportion blame
Do not understand this beautiful game,
What is it that fuels racism hate?
What thing can these fascists not tolerate?
They see it, writ large, in front of their face,
Team friends and humans, regardless of race,
They hugged each other with love in defeat.
Match lost but team love did bigotry beat.

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


Alpha, beta, delta, lambda kebabs,
Pick and mix menus, long covid rehabs.
Atomised rules destroy kids mental health,
Midst clamour for restart of rental wealth.
On terraces fans bring back wondrous roar,
This is what bread and circuses are for.
Occupy minds with dreams of fake glory,
Media moguls control this story.
Outdoors in country gardens bucolic
Lurk pandemic hordes of alcoholics,
New victims of lack of joined up thinking,
Cheap supermarket booze fires home drinking.
Blue tits and sparrows pay no attention,
Nature continues, beyond prevention.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 11th July 2021.


Pale rider shifts shape, slides across borders,
Passes detection, jumps over hurdles,
Ignores vaccines, laughs at end of lock downs.
Invisible and ineluctable,
Taunts experts and opportunists alike.
Third wave breaks on freedom day in summer.
Never have so many hands dripped so red.
Prime Minister, Blondie Bombshell Boris
Poses with three lions on an England shirt,
Naked opportunism breathtaking,
Such audacity blown beyond The Pale.
The fetid reek of fake populism
Blows hard from Downing Street to Wembley Way.
Not your day, you Eton rotters, not yours.

Harry Rogers, In the Yellow Room, 11th July 202.


I Am Not A Genre recorded in 2017 at the Get Off The Grid Solar Energy Festival in North Georgia, in August 2017.

I am not a genre
I am not in a bag
I am not a genre
That would be such a drag
I am not a genre
I play outside the box
I am not a genre
Nobody shot my Fox
I’m a free man
I’m a free man
Free man that rocks
I’m a free man
I’m a free man
Breaking the locks
I am not a genre
Don’t stick labels on me
I am not a genre
I won’t be what you see
I am not a genre
Conforming to your rule
I am not a genre
Ain’t gonna be your mule
I’m a free man
I’m a free man
Free man that rocks
I’m a free man
I’m a free man
Breaking the locks
A Genre.

Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, Aberbanc, July 9th 2017


Three men in rocketships
Aim to be into space
Each before the other.
This is meant to be “news”.
An MP talks about
Indigenous people
On the Channel Four News,
Also meant to be “news”.
Elderly New Labour
Wrecking ball mega stars
Ever regurgitate
Via purported “news”.
Major-minor royals
Act out stupid events
And other cunning stunts,
Also portrayed as “news”.
Current affairs rise large
With Cabinet members
Caught polishing their desks,
Hailed as important “news”.
Yet hundreds of thousands
Demonstrate on our streets,
Silence is deafening
As they don’t make the “news”.
What is “news” all about?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 9th July 2021.


A song for Jenny, my partner for almost 40 years, recorded in Sandy Springs in Atlanta Georgia with Steve Baird on Guitar, and later flute added by Kathie Holmes.
Jenny and I on holiday many years ago.

She’s my garden girl

She’s got pollen in her hair

She’s my garden girl

She plants smiles everywhere

Look across the valley

On a warm day

You’ll see my garden girl

On a warm day

She’ll be busy planting

On a warm day

Outside with her radio

On a warm day

She’s my garden girl

She’s got pollen in her hair

She’s my garden girl

She plants smiles everywhere

Look across the valley

On a hot day

She’ll be there again

On a hot day

Watering the vegetables

On a hot day

Outside with her radio

On a hot day

She’s my garden girl

She’s got pollen in her hair

She’s my garden girl

She plants smiles everywhere

Look across the valley

On a wet day

She’s in her greenhouse

On a wet day

Sowing seeds in compost

On a wet day

Inside with her radio

On a wet day

She’s my garden girl

She’s got pollen in her hair

She’s my garden girl

She plants smiles everywhere

Look across the valley

On a cold day

There’s my garden girl

On a cold day

Digging over fruit beds

On a cold day

Outside with her radio

On a cold day

She’s my garden girl

She’s got pollen in her hair

She’s my garden girl

She plants smiles everywhere

Copyright: Harry Rogers – 25-11-11, Recorded in 2018, Edited 6th July 2021


This appetite for risk
Beyond the sour point,
Beyond immunity,
Encouraged from above.
Once more new variants
Wreak havoc where we meet,
Feed manna to the herd,
Theatre of the absurd.
Go dancing in the street,
Soon Lambda there you’ll meet,
It’s a new infection,
Bypass vaccine action,
Shapeshifting pale riders
Care not for elections,
Endless replication,
Beyond application,
Still rampant in Peru,
Danger for me and you,
Now inside our borders,
Still sing that road map tune,
Reach destination soon,
Like zombies under moon,
Heap praise on blond pultroon.
Dance Lambda Lambada
Whirligig spins faster.

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


Today he said
“If not now when?”
If not now when?
Did he say that?
Did he really?
If not now when?
As spike rises?
Mid pandemic?
We are all now
Trust common sense,
Roll out road map.
Road map to where?
Randian bet
On new cult of
Post vax freedom.
So where do those
Anti vaxers
Fit into this
Chaos theatre?
What about those
Double jabbers
Downed by Delta?
Hope folks enjoy
Drinks at the bar,
Shisha pipe smoke,
Strip clubs, clip joints,
Hugs in the Park
Dances in dark.
If these take your
Fancy once more
It’s up to you,
You know the score,
Just remember
Do what thou wilt
Is not yet the
Whole of the law.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, July 5th 2021


My brother Bruce with his wife Brenda who died in late 2019.
I made this poem in her memory for Bruce and their children, Alison, Hayley and George. They had a star named after her and so I wrote these words.

Take time, look up into the sky,
Beyond the realm of wonder why
You’ll find that place of love and care
A galaxy beyond compare
Very special, so far out there
Focus to right above Great Bear
There has appeared a brand new star
That beams so bright from oh so far
Day time, night time, astral splendor
Marvel at that star called Brenda.

Harri Rogers
12th January 2020.


Labour Roller Coaster jumps red wall rails,
Embrace nationalism when all else fails,
Wrap butchers apron around leaders waist,
Shout I’m buying British, I love the taste
Of Melton Mowbray pork pies, Bakewell Tarts,
Jellied eels, Stilton, things that make one fart,
Wear Burberry on the doorstep,
Order pre TV patriotic prep,
Be all things to all, Brexit or remain,
Ride a dozen donkeys, blame left, again.
Claim victory from nigh on disaster,
Demolish red castles ever faster,
More than half electorate stay at home,
Smells like a whiff of fall of ancient Rome.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 5th July 2021.


On the road to Harrifest
To catch up with all my friends
In nineteen ninety seven
When I was fifty years old
When Bill Fleming met Bob Fish,
A musical path was lit
Beneath red barn we gathered,
For more than twenty one years

At Harrifest
Where songs ran free
In the wild West
Our songs ran free
Times were the best
The beer ran free
At Harrifest
Where we ran free

Barbecues and veg curries,
Manicured garden camp site,
Poets, bands, some jugglers too,
From far and wide all did come,
Dave Sutherland missed not one,
By jingo did we have some fun,
We rocked out through setting sun,
Everyone loved everyone.

Our Harrifest
Best in the West.
How much we do remember.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 3rd July 2021.


Mock up of proposed flag on Tax Office in Cardiff.

Welcome to Senedd Kinema,
Stuck in the middle of the road,
Where first minister has become
The Boris Johnson squirmy toad.
How comes blood stained butchers apron
Flies on high in our capital?
In these dog days of the empire,
A move like this has capped it all.
Ancient projectors belch dark smoke,
Mirrors reflect the worst of proof,
On days like this in Cardiff Bay,
Through blue light, Labour screens it’s truth.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 1st July 2021.


The New Normal will likely be a permanent Precariat.
The Capitalist Realism practiced by neo liberal governments and the Covid 19 pandemic are in a real sense a perfect storm for all of us.
Blairism and the stalinisation of the Public Sector left us closer to total privatisation of the NHS. That open door has allowed a section amongst Tory polititions to actively move further towards the American approach to health care over the last ten years and more.
Education, Education, Education, the slogan of Blairism has led to the implementation of a regime within Higher Education that has led to a complete and ridiculous shackling of Academia into a maelstrom of performance indicators and monitoring which in turn is now in total chaos due to Covid 19. Blairism signalled the end of opposition to capitalist exploitation. Despite the blip that was Corbynism, the Stalinist Blairites have never relinquished control of the structure of the Labour Party, and the mainstream media have conspired with this clique to bring about the destruction of the integrity of the left through the use of blatent lies.

Why do people not care about corruption? Or perhaps they do care but realise that there ain’t anything they can do about it once it becomes so all pervasive.

At this juncture we have a Government composed of the very worst political criminals who have exploited the biggest health crisis in a hundred years for personal gain. The corruption that comes from a complete disregard for tendering proceedures for procurement contracts is utterly outrageous.

Why is there a basic acceptance that politicians and senior managers in public services and state run businesses are on the take? Such fatalism comes in part from a catastrophic failure of mainstream journalism.

That corruption is now the status quo is a given amongst vast swathes of the public. There is no longer a culture of integrity, no expectation of honesty, in those who control our lives. Politics has become a term similar to crime, no-one trusts their elected officials any more, no matter what their ideological position is.

What we are now experiencing is Long Capitalism, an affliction that spreads under the guise of freedom and the future fulfillment of unattainable dreams through the giant Ponzi scheme that is thrust upon humanity by an elite cadre who believe that they are immortal, beyond control, and entitled to behave as they like, using state apparatus and the subservient media to protect and enhance their position.
We recall when Thatcher said there is no alternative to capitalism after the collapse of communism in Russia and the Eastern Bloc. The struggle to articulate an alternative in these times is harder than it was back in those tumultuous last decades of the twentieth century. Yet those of us who believe that such rottenness at the heart of our society should be cut out have to find the means to not just articulate an alternative but to convince people that there is a better way. This is the imperative that faces us as we stare into the abyss of fascism.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 1st July 2021


Bring pictures of Cosmic Dawn
We are stardust after all,
Shame bombers aren’t butterflies,
All this time on from Woodstock.
Fill minds with infinity,
Shift thoughts to universal,
Away from minutiae.
Encourage contemplation
Of paradigms that blow minds,
Move thoughts away from mundane,
To phantasmagorical.
Do not allow focus on
Immediacy of life,
Poverty, sickness nor wealth,
Bring on artful distraction,
Flood out impenetrable,
Those artificial dream scapes
That ultimately lead to
Ultra dissatisfaction.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 28th June 2021


War of the narrative ramps up tension,
Sabres rattle, bolt on apprehension,
Insert mainstream media upon bridge,
Issue fire proofed outfits to privileged,
Both sides revel in dark paranoia,
Ignore advice of humanist lawyers,
Leaders need threat of distant enemies,
To justify growth of their arsenals.
But is there crime here in the Crimea?
Or creation of underlying fear?
Bankrupt, this fifties ideology
Pervades highest corridors of power.
In Europe and Russia us folks buy pain,
For the bewildered across the Ukraine.

Harry Rogers, in The Yellow Room, 27th June 2021


Hard storms rage long
Darkling flash song
Something is wrong.

Split asunder
Summer thunder
Tears up under

Where shall we go?
If we’re alone?
We need a home.

What we need
Is Unity

For today
Need Unity

All the world
Wants unity

Bring it now
Love unity

We all gots to get together
We gots to build a better place
Join up one by one by one now
Let’s unify whilst we still can

When storm rides out
Outside we shout
Put aside doubt

Hair dried in place
Smile on our face
One human race

Joined hand in hand
Nothing is planned
One happy band

What we need
Is Unity

For today
Need Unity

All the world
Wants unity

Bring it now
Love unity

Bring it now
Love unity

Bring it now
Love unity

Before it gets too late for me to see.

Harry Rogers, In the yellow room, 23rd June, 2021


A small pile of red bricks in Amersham,
All that remains of Keith’s local party,
Where once there were hopes of building a wall,
Now there is little chance left there at all.
Mandelsonian disrupters at work,
Take us on magical mystery tour
To strange, prefigured, Orwellian place,
Where everyone has a two sided face,
Where lies are piled sky high in full out trays,
And no-one believes what anyone says.
New Labour nonces blame Corbyn, again,
Lib Dem romancers fling new austere pain.
Garden TV parties spring up in pubs,
Football means more than political subs.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 23rd June 2021.

Surfing Sargasso Hurricane Wave

I’m overcome by realisation.
By the life lived by a woman, Ella.
Known as Jean Rhys she short circuits my mind.
Brought up short in The Wide Sargasso Sea,
I am knocked off my sleek sex waxed surfboard.
A hurricane of understanding comes,
Climbing back on my board, bracing for the
Giant third age wave, rolling over weeds,
Ready to be ridden in clear sunlight,
Towards shining, swirling, vortex centre,
Where the flotsam and jetsam disappears,
Sucked into deepest blue water below,
To forever swim down amongst the eels,
Never escaping dark, tangled, green, reeds.

Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, Aberbanc – Easter Monday 2017. Revised in the red bedroom, 23rd June 2021.


Aimee is a saviour,
She knows what is what
Knows how easy boredom comes
How strong is the game.
Easy conversation
Leads to find my needs
She uses her instinct,
Drills down instantly.
Stands her ground with a smile,
Very readily
Searches for friendship crux,
Goes straight to the point
Enables music flow,
Brings me some earphones,
I can recuperate,
Aimee you are great.
Aimee, Aimee, Aimee,
You are truly great.

Harry Rogers, In Cardiac Care Unit, Gwilli Hospital, Carmarthen, 19th June 2021.


Spectrum warfare behind scenes,
Control airways by any means,
Tanks, trenches, no longer matter,
Troops with rifles are so old school.
Autonomous mm spectrum drones,
Robot ships, and pilotless planes,
Communicate by radio,
Seek out algorithymic targets.
Machine learned combat veterans,
Use wireless now to swell coffers,
Politicians love to see none
Of their boys flown in body bags.
Keep all collateral damage,
Overseas, out of sight and mind.
The spectrum battlefield is here,
Old warfare now can disappear,
Military industrial
Complex brings profits far more grand,
Now wireless warfare’s in the land.

Harry Rogers In Major Room One, Glangwilli A&E, 18th June, 2021


One thing we can predict for sure,
This ain’t ever going away.
Not now, not ever, not no more,
It’s here forever and a day.
We will be jabbed and jabbed again,
Throughout the rest of all our lives.
Groundhogs run in and out with pain,
It’s luck that dictates who survives.
Still how much better do we feel,
Boris has ate another meal,
One more big fish inside his creel,
He’s bagged Australian trade deal.
How warm the cockles of my heart,
As propaganda games begin,
Already fizzles like long, slow fart,
Remind me how we put him in.

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 15th June 2021


“This taking the knee thing”
That’s what Fiona said
On Question Time tonight.
Just sums up where we’re at.
Such blatent flipancy,
From this roadshow antique
Who believes it’s her right,
As a top presenter,
To set political
And social agendas.
Her denigration and
Naked belittling
Of anything vaguely
Left wing and progressive
Continues on unchecked,
Sadly, week after week.
Black Lives Matter, campaign
In English Football game,
Up for public debate,
“This taking the knee thing.”
It’s not political,
Is It?Well yes, it is,
Just not on the radar
Of Labour or Tories.

Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, 14th June 2021


Demo recorded with Andrew Howell in 2016

I see you’re still going to that cellar bar,
Still driving there in that old fifties car
Same old place where once love was begun
Desperately seeking out some long lost fun
Where everyone you see is almost young
People have I love you on the tip of their tongue

Almost young
So very nearly young
Almost young
So very nearly young

Gathered in the corners, away from the light
Touching starngers hands though till midnight
Kissing in the dark, holding on so tight,
Like finch chicks in a nesting box, out of sight
Wondering whether this really feels right.
Could it work out? Maybe it just might.

Almost young
So very nearly young
Almost young
So very nearly young

Once in a while you take a bit of a chance,
Move onto the floor for a long slow dance,
Look wistfully across where the young folk are
On the shiny bright side of the cellar bar
To that place where love was once begun
Dancing in the shadows with the almost young

Almost young
So very nearly young
Almost young
So very nearly young

Harry Rogers, In the old study, 7th July 2012


After the last year and a half at last a better time is coming.
Title track from Scene Red second album SHINING THROUGH THE TREES.

Winter has been long and hard

Springtime also cold and wet

Summer’s very nearly here

You are coming home again

It’s been far far too long

Since you had to go away

See the sunshine

Shining through the trees

Shining through the trees

Shining over you and me

I’m waiting for your old white car

To come on down our lane

Can’t wait to hear your old white car

And see your smiling face again

Now the sun is back again

You brought the sun

back again

See the sunshine

Shining through the trees

Shining through the trees

Shining over you and me

Harry Rogers, In the old study, 2015


Scientists in white lab coats,
Wheeled out, yet again,
To bale out politicians,
That bring austere pain.
Expert justification,
Old canard so sour,
Wielded, nation by nation,
Charlatan power.

Biden to Bolsanaro,
Johnson to Macron,
Will blame boffins in white coats,
When it all goes wrong.
Slowly our eyes glaze over,
Sombre songs we sing,
People flock onto beaches,
Bank holiday fling.

Governments dole out good news,
Their lips drip with cream,
Pass balls to academics,
To roll out bad dreams.
Leaders need these panjandrums,
To stand up on screen,
Throughout elite history,
Always been obscene.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 5th June 2021.


Speculate. Where and how mind meets world,
Versus situations where world meets mind?
How easy is it to manipulate
Perception? To generate mass belief,
In resurrectional concepts as truth?
Convince multitudes there’s freedom of choice,
At same time deny alternative voice?
Perpetual reminders pumped, daily,
Through media organs, built to ensure,
We respect royalty and rule of law.
Lately disrupters gain credence anew,
Still nothing changes to overall view.
Such questions perplex as I journey on,
Towards inevitable terminus.

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


News bounces from radio against wall,
Heard new variant, flew in from Nepal.
In same way there’s a grey zone of warfare
Could it be there is a grey zone of health?
That space in between peace and declared war,
Where arms manufacturers operate,
Sales executives occupy high ground,
Set up stalls at fairs to pimp deterrence.
After all, nobody wants to start war,
This is ,they say, what weaponry is for.
Maintain status quo in honest regimes,
Shore up capitalist edifaces
Against concepts of democratic change.
Grey zone newspeak infects global research.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 3rd June, 2021


Government and media tell us each day,
Property prices are soaring away,
Now is the best time to buy a new home,
Whilst interest rates are historically low,
Lenders flood markets with easy money,
House prices rocket, supply is curtailed.
How can bubbles grow so big and not burst?
Level up red walls, put rentiers first,
Protect portfolio entrepreneurs,
Maximise right to evict poor renters.
Vaccine relief floods out from TV screens,
Unfurloughed homeless spill out onto streets.
Housing departments collapse under strain,
Remind me, what price John Lewis curtains?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 2nd June 2021


This is a repost from 2013 with the addition of an MP3 recorded in 2016.








Harry Rogers, in Carmarthen 05-03-2013


It’s the wedding of the week
A match that’s made in heaven,
They’ve already made a tweak
To flat number eleven.
Radio stations churn out
Silly love songs everyday,
This fucking covid nightmare,
Feels as if it’s here to stay,
Sun shines brightly on the beach,
People flood onto the shore,
Swim in sea, sunbathe on sand,
This is what lock down was for?
This is UK groundhog day,
It’s twenty twenty again
I watch late night TV news,
Well, at least it didn’t rain.
Even our two newly weds,
Have skipped out down to the coast,
Most of us are gate happy,
We all miss our freedom most.
I only want to live………
a little bit longer

Harry Rogers, in the Yellow Room, 1st June 2021.


Daylight darkens into dusk,
Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Musk,
Climb into electric cars,
Look up with greed towards stars,
Dream they will put life on Mars,
Become modern avatars.
Who are they to rip us off?
Beyond law they stand and scoff,
One hundred billion plus,
Each of them has made from us.
Tax for them? Anathema,
Each one a tarantula.
Combined power truly vast,
Control stolen super fast,
Too late to mourn distant past,
Seems as if their die is cast,
We are ruled by oligarchs,
Aided by perverted narks.
Where once internet ran free
Mine data from thee and me.
We must cauterise their lust,
Zuckerberg, Bezos, and Musk.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 30th May 2021.


MSM push Downing Street narrative,
We can spend our way out of disaster.
Pandemic windfall savings rescue us
From collapse of retail economy.
Nevermind rampant viral variants,
Have to do our bit to save the market.
Can it work out? If we empty accounts?
I hear on Radio Four news today
Global inflation may gallop away,
Already copper, oil and lumber,
Resource prices rising beyond state control.
Create paranoia, bubbles will burst.
Wait with bated breath, boom and bust cycle,
Roars round bend, yet again poor take hit first.

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 29th May 2021.


Yeah, I’m old, so what? Demo recorded in Harriboy’s Hut, 28/05/2021

Yeah, I’m old, what’s it to you?
You in your grace and favour,
Middle aged, luxury life.
Who the fuck are you to think
It’s OK to throw away
Over eighties like rubbish?
To portray Covid nineteen
As a tool for removal
Of elderly people now
Surplus to requirements?
With four hundred and twenty
Members of the House Of Lords
Over the age of Seventy,
Making the laws of the land,
You think it acceptable
To dismiss us at a stroke?
Well, Mr Spaffy Bollocks,
I have some grave news for you,
We ain’t going gracefully.
You can’t shuffle us all off
Into your herd immunity
Chicken pox party parlours,
To die, agonisingly,
We refuse to accept it.
You cannot avoid the truth.
Chickens, poxed or otherwise,
Come home to roost with vengeance.
We’re coming for you, Johnson,
It is time to call you out.
You are a selfish bastard,
With nazi proclivities,
An old school eugenicist,
Prone to racist utterance,
Populist embarrassment,
You use naked harassment
To besmirch democracy.
We are going to send you
An electoral message
That will get right up your nose,
Assuming that there is no
Rolled up fiver already there.
Now it’s time for you to take
Your fake, smirky, boyish charm,
Into has been wilderness.
We see you, you fucking crook,
See you, even though we’re old,
This time we will not forget.

Harry Rogers, In the Red Bedroom, 27th May 2021.


Afternoon speed up of Irish bodhran
Takes me dreamily alongside fiddle
Piano laden with gentle reverb
Soft vocals roll on through the middle

Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away

All I need to transport my mind again,
Back, back, ever back, back to the Big A.
Where new world familiar friends reside.
Sandy Springs or Tucker, places to play.

Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Back in the Big A.
Cold tea and whiskey
Soothe my blues away
Cold tea and whiskey
Wait in the Big A.

Ride Marta from airport to Candler Park,
Through Five Points my heart sings high like a lark,
Wistful I wander by Chattahoochee,
Fly me, please fly me, back over the sea.

Cold tea and whiskey
They wait for me there,
Atlanta calls me,
Cold tea and whiskey.

In bed in Aberbanc 06-11-2019. Finished in the Red Bedroom, 27th May 2021


Sup pea and ham soup in Town Hall Café,
First meal out indoors since January
Twenty Twenty. Things have changed in small ways.
As ever in Lampeter soft rain falls.
Sainsbury’s car park machine now cashless.
My debit card soaked as I stand and tap.
Hardware store still haphazard as ever,
With screened social distanced one way system.
We’ve no coins for supermarket trolley,
Seems a lifetime since I spent real money.
Jolly café hubbub strangely subdued,
Reverential cappuccino coffee,
Sipped whisperly, hushed tones, as if in church.
We buy takeaway cakes to eat at home.

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


On the coastal path
A sunny Sunday
Walk cliffs to river,
Down to Ceibwr Bay.
Out in the water
Bottlenoses play,
Dreamy fish parade,
Dolphins dance on wave,
Swear I almost heard
Trois Gymnopedies
Bounce off rock face walls
Out across the sea.
Back upon cliff tops
On blanket we sit,
Greedy gulls hover
Whilst we eat picnic.
Sunny afternoon,
It’s a perfect day,
Late February,
Down in Ceibwr Bay.

Harry Rogers In The Yellow Room, 24th May 2021


Demo recorded by Unbroken Ponies 2016

I stand on the cliff path
Overlooking Smugglers Bay
I see the setting sun
Reflected in the waves
If I half close my eyes
I’m back down on that beach
When everything I wanted
Seemed within my reach

After skinny dipping we
Lay there on the sand
Shared our life stories,
Had the same favourite band
That was a great day when
The salt dried in our hair

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

We pooled our resources,
Decided we would share
Everything we had, started
Living our dreams large
We took off to Belgium
And bought a Dutch Barge
Sailed it to Haarlem where
We lived for seven years
Opened a piano bar
Selling Belgian beers

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Was it cocaine Johnny
Was it Captain Jack
One those two devils
Opened up a crack
You fell in with
Both of those guys
Something had died
Behind your eyes

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Like the dried up taste
Of dust from the plain
That advance warning
Of impending pain
This is where the start
Of the end begins
When you can smell
Rain in the wind

Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.
Rain Rain Rain
Rain in the wind.

Think I can smell
Rain in the wind….

Harry Rogers, In Harriboy’s Hut, May 2016, revised May 2021.


Ghosts, wherever I turn,
Imps that pick at my brain,
Those who died pre my birth,
Modernity victims,
Twentieth century,
Sad icons of beauty,
Wrecked on fake illusions
Of civilisation.
Personal, national,
Global, familial,
Too many ghosts scream out.
Wars fought for blood and soil,
Wealth, power, kings and oil,
From Somme to Falluja
From Dachau to China,
From Dresden to Gaza,
Korea to Cuba,
Vietnam to Yemen,
This list grows endlessly,
Day in, week in, year out,
War factories churn out,
Mass destruction weapons.
Dealers meet at giant fairs
But there are no fun times,
Helter skelter joy rides,
Bumper cars nor switch backs,
Only endless ghost trains
That carry death profits
To ghoulish investors.
In nineteen ninety nine
We sang our songs of hope,
For a new sunny dawn,
Business as usual soon
Brought all humans up short.
And still ghosts keep coming.
I am sick of this farce,
This death masque rave planet.
Bring me peace and justice,
If only for one day,
I’d like to not see ghosts,
It would be a nice change.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, 22nd May 2021.


Surf down glaciers to end of the world,
Where clouds are always a dirty yellow.
Drag lithium to surface, drive away
In electric cars, tell yourself you’re green.

Too late, too late,
To save the world
Too late, too late,
End of the world

I thought we might just pull survival off,
Perhaps there was a chance, if we turned red,
But that was about twenty years ago,
Before politics turned bluer than blue.

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Skate on ice shelves as they float away free,
Into plastic filled oceans coloured grey,
As forests burn, viruses explode,
Everywhere skies streaked blood red and orange.

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Empty purple planes line up on runways,
Holiday desire sends fools to amber,
It couldn’t get any later because,
Secretly, yet openly, we know it’s

Too late, too late,
To save the world,
Too late, too late,
End of the world.

Harry Rogers, In The Yellow Room, 21st May 2021.


Spads excel at theft of Jeremy’s clothes.
Trawl through long grass where lies manifesto,
Kicked there by Sir Keir in forensic fit
Of pink, Blairite, neo liberal pique.
Almost fell out of my bed this morning,
Radio Four news reader announces,
Without a hint of jaundiced sarcasm,
That Schapps is to take railways back into
Public ownership, immediately.
Franchises have failed. Privatisation?
A gargantuan Thatcherite mistake.
Public transport now totally vital.
Expect to see more Corbyn policies,
Dragged out of ditch by bereft Tories.

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


Such anxiety, I’m not used to it,
How can televised football news footage
Bring on such feelings from so far away?
A short clip of fans on their way to match,
Leaves me on the verge of panic attack.
Juxtaposed young unmasked united fans,
With Covid Indian variant stats.
I don’t begrudge these guys much needed fun,
At their age I too would go to the game.
To vent pent up lockdown testosterone,
Is so completely understandable.
Loss of freedom can only be maintained,
For so long before boiling point is reached.
So why am I in a paranoid state?

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom, 19th May 2021


I saw young sparrows dance,
As I sat in my chair,
Each small, twitchy, bird glanced
At me, and everywhere. 
I too worry about
The threat of predation
They, through instinct, straight out,
Me through trepidation.
Flitter from the hedgerow,
To nut holder and back,
Each journey from get go
Fraught, like a heart attack.
Next doors cat nonchalant,
Like me, oblivious.
All that mog could e’er want
Spiralled lascivious.
I sip julep waiting
Till within grasp I fall,
Sparrow, online dating.
Dancing? No, not at all.

Harry Rogers, In the hut, Aberbanc: 4th November 2016. Edited 16th May 2021.


Hop toad in number ten gapes smarmily,
Smiles as he announces his road map out
Of chaotic, self spawned, pandemic mess.
His minions, corruptly mired in graft,
Continue to spin confected conceits,
At flag draped lecterns, back pockets bulging.
Media sychophants scribble it down,
Besotted public still lap it all up,
Cling on desperately to normal dreams.
Crucible, Wembley, London Marathon,
Fine dining, real ale pumped, tennis nets jumped,
Masks discarded, wide open arms hug,
Manufactured relief spreads far and wide.
Beneath the lily pad untold truth hides.

Harry Rogers In The Red Bedroom, 16th May 202.


Watching My Shadow Leave, by Harry Rogers – Vocals and lyrics, and Ashley Cadell – music and mix

I wrote this poem in 2015. Sent a recording of me reading it to my old friend, Ashley Cadell who lives in Melbourne, Australia. He sent me back this amazing finished mix. I post it now in solidarity with the people of Palestine.


I know when things are bad
When I break down and cry
Even when they’re not sad
I cry and cry and cry
The look in people’s eyes
My heart bleeds on my sleeve
Such darkness in the skies
I watch my shadow leave
What can we all do
This is nothing new
What can we all do
This is nothing new 
I want to love them all
Be right there for them
In Al Yarmouk they fall
Also in Bethlehem
I hear them when they call
So loud they need their friends
The world still does fuck all
Whilst this war never ends!
What can we all do
This is nothing new
What can we all do
This is nothing new 
The look in people’s eyes
My heart bleeds on my sleeve
Such darkness in the skies
I watch my shadow leave.

Harry Rogers – In the old study, Aberbanc – 06/04/2015