Steer Kharma, forensick, at despatch box, Mewls as Haystacks gang shoots fox after fox. Cummings has stolen all Jeremy’s clothes, To wave them beneath New New Labour’s nose. Forests of money trees bloom at the bank, Quantitavely eased with clink and clank. Billions of pounds are drawn at a stroke, Millions of workers now left for broke. Advisory rules now go up in smoke, Health ministers stats now called out a joke. The track and trace app? A pig in a poke, Changes in benefits soon to revoke, Dole queues grow longer, this mess is severe, Still, grab a meal deal, don’t say it’s austere.
Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, Friday 10th July 2020
Here, in the disunited fiefdom, where a man with what looks like a storm blown stook of straw on his head rules the roost, us mere mortals have been offered a meal deal instead of a new deal. Up to ten pounds a punter to cover 50% of the cost of eating a meal out every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday as a way of enticing us all to get back into socialising whilst at the same time saving the businesses of restauranteurs and publicans. Meanwhile Covid spikes all over the place and we learn that indoors two metres is not much of a defence against an airborne virus. Jenny and I are staying right here harvesting our raspberries, weeding the vegetables and reupholstering the old sofa bed. Still, the muse of the iambic pentameter is ever present as the sonnets pour out of my fingers and into my phone at an alarming rate, and I am surprisingly jolly. The birds are as busy as ever, swallows and swifts swoop over the hillside lunching on the wing and woodpeckers use our nut feeder as a crazy kind of swing. Life is precious. One love, companero.
A nest of incestuous investors Lies behind cloak of bombed out BJ Hand grenade drops through Brexit pill box slit Wounded spads analyse pin puller disguise Desperate to find who will benefit Us cannon fodder voters, smoke in eyes, Watch in stunned terror as panto unfolds, No-one shouts Look Behind You, in the wings Waits latest parvenu, heart all a quiver Soon, on centre stage, where he will slither, Highwayman new shouts Stand and Deliver Fresh spads snivel as the people shiver. Democracy turns to patrician mauve I really do hope it’s not Michael Gove.
Harry Rogers, in the red bedroom, Monday 25th May 2020.
Chomsky’s Dog chews papers in the background Every now and then makes a growling sound Naom proselytises without pause Dog scratches purposefully with all claws Advice for activists flows out freely Words spoken softly yet no less steely Offers hope for future generations Twenty years to save the fate of nations Wretched theives and crooks, wrecked economy Post Covid climate, lockdown anomie, Our world in danger, soon we will be toast, All now take action, don’t give up the ghost. He is compelling, get up off our knees Shred Tory lies like Chomsky’s Pekinese.
Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, Pencnwcau, 24th May 2020