Pinocchio’s clone sits on Labour throne,
Polishing his nose, now that it is grown.
Last left vestiges thrown over prams edge,
Slowly, one by one, pledge by pledge by pledge,
Discarded easily as old child’s toy,
Doing what he’s told, a cynical ploy.
Silence now golden, keeps out of the way,
Goes up in the polls, says less every day.
Draped in shadows, it is safer back there,
Keep powder dry, no more devil may care.
Don’t try hard to win, move quick in your shoes,
Watch Rishi and Liz help Tories to lose.
This Starmer secret? No manifesto.
Nowt said? Into number ten, hey presto!

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 29th August 2022


Quantitative tightening almost here,
Watch slump follow recession, end of year.
Transitory value takes house prices down,
Mortgage payers trapped in most every town,
Goods and services priced beyond control,
Businesses collapse, no money for dole.
Once they grew rich, lived high upon the hog,
Rampant inflation now, it’s dog eat dog.
People spend savings in these rainy days,
Bankers jump from windows damned with faint praise.
What goes up must come down, we all knew that,
Still we let greedy syphon off the fat.
Ghosts of Jarrow march on our streets again,
Belt tightening now totally insane.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 28th August 2022


It’s war, it’s war, it’s definitely war.
We know exactly what we’re fighting for,
Don’t we? Don’t we, know what we’re fighting for?
It’s chrystal clear ain’t it, just as before?
One more political hot potato,
All dressed up ready to kill for NATO.
Wandering, aimlessly, out in the bush,
Certain conviction which button to push.
Upgrade deterrent, bigger and better,
Domesday clock ticks louder, louder than ever.
So delve deeper into dressing up box,
Ignore striking workers, and monkey pox,
Fear must be created, again, again,
Propaganda grows more mental health pain.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom
27th August 2022.


Falsely breaks dawn on hilltop once again,
We marched up here with hope to ease our pain.
Twenty thirty target timidly set,
Fifteen pounds an hour wage, but not quite yet.
Fabian swallows swoop from TUC,
Comrades left outside loop, same history.
Go softly forward is their battle cry,
As darkly Tory clouds block out clear sky.
Old miners watch centrists steal across our floor,
Sellout new generation as before.
We want transformation now, nothing more,
Nothing less, this is existential war.
These leaders, with smoke filled room policies,
Should ask first, not hijack democracy.

Harry Rogers in The Red Bedroom, 25th August 2022.


Nothing is safe, nothing sacred,
All we worked for stolen away,
Pockets picked after taxes paid.
What was once ours now belongs them,
Those grubby fingered miscreants,
Who openly boast greed is good.
Blue sky thoughts fill faux Tory brains,
“Why bother to keep things in house?
We can have power positions,
Without responsibility,
Let them make inflated profits,
Council chamber belongs to us.”
Outside on streets through bleak estates
Fear builds as privatisation
Gluttons hoover hard earned wages
With bold increased alacrity.
Six million wait for treatment
From health service, impossible
In it’s ability to cope,
To deliver without access
To financial resource needs.
This is genocide against those
Without access to private care,
Time travel back pre World War Two,
It’s the American approach,
Anti collective, dog eat dog,
No freedom for all citizens,
No such thing as society.
Thatcher haunts from beyond her grave,
Her students hell bent to finish
Destruction of socialism.

Harry Rogers in The Yellow Room, 24th August 2022.


Abattoirs powered by animal fat,
Carbon neutral answer to eating beef.
Slurry spread across fields by waterside,
Runoff into rivers near sewage pipes.
Phosphate generated green algae bloom,
Windermere ruined, no place for wild life,
Pollenating insects all disappear
Orwellian nightmares proliferate,
Pumped strutters stride in through Westminster gates,
Tightly clutching oil share certificates,
I’m alright Jack, Randian battle cries,
Frack our way out of energy crisis,
Fuel weapon production, create war jobs.
For my sanity get me out of here.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 23rd August 2022


Watch the rich do exactly as they please,
They force poor people down upon their knees.
Tories dine on irregularity,
Take holidays from reality.
Responsibility below power
Enables life in ivory towers.
Thatcherite future ghosts conjured from past,
Tattered new normal flags fly from their mast.
Abusive laws throw freedom under bus,
Heavily touted by Sunak and Truss.
Leaves wither early then fall to parched ground,
Media excretes usual blue sounds.
Despite Starmers Labour we’ll cut up rough,
It’s time we stood tall, Enough Is Enough.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 20th August 2022.


Scene Red Demo recorded in Harriboy’s Hut 11th November 2019

Torrent falls out of the sky
Flooded victims sit and cry
On the hill I wonder why?
There’ll be no rainbows anymore.

Seems like once upon a time
Everyday the sun did shine
Life was gonna work out fine
There are no rainbows anymore

Clouds block out the sun
Rivers take down fun
Cannot see the sun
Rainbows have all gone

No Rainbows
No Rainbows
No Rainbows

Remember ash trees by the stream
Can only see them when we dream
Nothing stays the same it seems
There are no rainbows anymore.

No Rainbows
No Rainbows
No Rainbows

Harry Rogers


Mental health trashed in Pandemonium,
Yet still correct lines are more important.
Revenants, wrapped in bear skin positions,
Forever riding in closed carriages,
Whilst others constantly doctor photos,
Continue to squabble as planet burns.
How heavy this mirror is now become,
Weighed down by constant moral reflections,
Zoomed in from dialectic directions,
Hammerheads worn from driving truth nails home,
Sickles blunted by failed bureaucracy.
Yet still flickers emancipation flame,
Where freedom and hope dance in sunset glow,
Arms around shoulders, come comrades, let’s rave.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 13th August 2022.


Sometimes going backwards drives me forward.
If I search haphazardly in dark rooms,
Randomly tossing dusty detritus
Into tape decks, onto old turntables,
Sounds I never knew I’d lost bite me hard,
Drive me down dark highways without headlights,
No roadmap nor inane satnav pilot,
Only chaotic bang crash anarcho
Synthesis that leads on to memories
Not yet formulated in my old brain.
Unlike comfortable cover overcoats,
Trawled from well thumbed lyric poet chapbooks,
This buried treasure unheard by critics,
Fuses blown circuits into new formats.
These processes seem supernatural,
Oevre busting creative dynamite,
Eerie, scary, yet exhilarating.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 12th August 2022.


Spent a long time hoping revolution would come,
Still looking to the future for change to happen.
Ghosts from long lost past pop their heads up everywhere,
Trapped in historic sludge lillies wait to float free.
In those times to come, when there’s no more you or me,
Will past happenings apply to reality?
Everything has sped up, beyond capacity,
All culture all at once blown to infinity.
Our brains try hard to cope but soon get overloaded,
Critical abilities over exploded.
Days before technocracy filled now with appeal,
Easier to survive then, much less to conceal.
Place vinyl on turntables, conjure old spectres,
Get out boxes of slides, switch on time projectors,
Images and sounds trigger planted memories,
Context is something loaded by society.
Sequential chords mixed with exotic sunset scenes,
Promised much not delivered, visions never seen.
Everyday fades out to strains of God Save The Queen,
Humanity now chained to ultimate machines.
Astral planes are feasible in new metaverse,
Honestly ask ourselves could there be nothing worse?
All around rivers dry up, food crops lay burnt, destroyed,
Whilst half the world are busy, playing with their toys.
Hucksters still proclaim there is no alternative,
Capitalism is the only way to live.
And yet dreams still float within imagination,
Ideas not as yet born can bring about salvation.
Wraiths whistle tunes that stimulate new directions,
It’s necessary to foster recollections,
Not to carry on making same mistakes again,
But to help build futures where all are free from pain.
As future dream Arcanas trundle into view
Will we find secret meaning as old becomes new?

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 11th August 2022



Cost of living keeps going up,
Time to say
Enough is enough
Government has sold us a pup
Time to say
Enough is enough
No such thing as leveling up
Time to say
Enough is enough
Learn from women who won that cup
Time to say
Enough is enough
As our lives get rougher than rough
Time to say
Enough is enough
Why should life be tougher than tough?
Time to say
Enough is enough
Shout out loud
Enough is enough
Sing it proud
Enough is enough
Enough is enough
Join us now,
Enough is enough
Bring them down
Enough is enough

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 10th August 2022


Dishonour meaningless in times like these,
Sick, poor, hungry, young, old, watch now agog,
Johnson cavorts free to fly on the breeze,
Still bounces as that out of control dog.
How can a leader be sacked in disgrace
Yet maintain favours of privileged job?
Bullingdon smirk still etched deep across face,
Yet no-one knows how to dislodge this yob.
He sits at his desk, exceedingly pissed,
Plots out new futures, new ways to make cash,
Whose names will appear on last honours list?
One more mockery corrupted with trash.
He burns midnight oil, quaffs Downing Street fizz,
Hands on his baton to acolyte Liz.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom 6th August 2022.


How dare you leave us to fight on alone,
Make union picket lines no go zones,
Day in, day out, cast your catfishing lines,
Yet we see you now behind your disguise.
Abandon each pledge, each policy oath,
Mimic Tory trumpet call, Growth Growth Growth.
Say nothing when truth is spoke to your face,
Expel any critics, you’re a disgrace.
Relaunches, reboots, photo rent-a-mobs,
As recession looms there are no safe jobs.
Food bank queues lengthen, PFi debts mount,
Somehow those past mistakes no longer count.
New Labour daydreams, more blue sky thinking,
Out here we’re drowning, rivers are shrinking.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 5th August 2022


Whilst u-turning on public sector pay,
Favourite Thatcher clone can do no wrong,
According to mainstream media polls,
During this arcane, pre honeymoon, farce.
What a charade as Rees Mogg leads campaign.
These though are early days, worms can still turn,
Buffers can be run into any time,
We wait, with bated breath, for next blunder.
Whilst people paint George crosses on their cheeks,
Every headline reeks of nationalism,
A few who still retain a modicum
Of integrity are trashed everywhere.
Summer used to be the Silly Season,
It’s a lot madder than that nowadays.

Harry Rogers in The Yellow Room, 2nd August 2022.


All the fancy dress bespoke,
Royalty besmirched with coke,
On Cornwall’s granola choke,
Oh, not this rosetinted bloke?
Football mad, stood on one leg,
Now buys his suits off the peg,
Princes ain’t too proud to beg,
Republican powder keg.
Palaces and privilege
Not enough atop their ridge,
Perverse imps wave, cross the bridge,
Life’s cool outside Windsor fridge.
Present trophy, it’s your norm,
Ride out this new Twitter storm,
To many you’re still high borne,
But now, we see, you have form.
Blue blood genetic template,
Cannot resist tempting fate,
The Firm now must contemplate,
What hell doth this king await?

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom, 1st August 2022.


A poem about these desperate times where people do and say terrible things.

Early, in the dimness of the morning,
He goes to the window.
He opens the curtain wide.
He takes a little look outside.
He sees something, something,
He sees something in the trees.
Something, hanging, in the trees,
Where the children play.

He looks, closer,
Doesn’t know what it is,
Hanging, in the trees,
Where the children play

The sun rises over the flats,
Shafts of light bounce between
The branches and the leaves.
Another Eltham day is dawning,
Next door’s cat mewls at the door,
The street is slowly awakening.

He looks again to the shape,
The something, hanging in the trees,
Where the children play.
He sees his next door neighbour,
Hanging, in the trees,
Where the children play.
Hanging in the trees,
Where the children play

In the early Eltham sunlight,
Where the children play.
Another warm autumn sunrise,
Where the children play.
Police car parks, beneath the trees,
Where the children play.
Why did he have to do it there?
I hear the small crowd say
Why couldn’t he find somewhere else?
He did it
Where the children play

Harry Rogers, in the old study, Aberbanc, 2013


Would be king of the smart aleck soundbite
Tries to hijack a Lioness win ride.
Smack of insincerity on steroids
Propels him further into losers void.
No matter how hard he tries to find IT,
He’s lost in a charisma deficit.
In LOTO office as panic sets in
Dark art lords totally run out of spin
So ill at ease with no wind at his back
All he can do is cuddle Union Jack,
Thus is the truth of his horror story,
Spun from ersatz Tory Jackanory.
As number ten keys slip further away
Workers need leaders to fight for their pay.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 28th July 2022


There were ten of them,
I remember them.
Solemn promises,
Given as pledges,
When you told us all
You can trust in me,
Put your trust in me,
My integrity.
Why did you need to
Tell us about that?
Now it’s growth growth growth,
Pledges are all parked,
We see who you are,
Revealed from the dark.
Like a stunned rabbit,
Sat in that café,
Truth slapped in your face,
You had nowt to say.
Caught out bang to rights,
Still don’t understand,
Talking to The Sun,
Such a waste of time,
We see straight through you,
It’s not what you say,
What you’ve done or do
Every single day
Reveals who is you.
All your jokes fall flat,
Each paltry relaunch,
Polls remain flatlined,
You’ve thrown hope away,
There’s one thing to do,
You must walk away,
For the sake of the
Many, not the few,
Get thee gone today,
Had enough of you,
See you clearly now,
You take your pledges,
Fake solemnity,
Wrap them up in silk,
End of Wigan pier,
Toss them in the sea.
Stop this Blairite guff,
Enough is enough.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 26th July 2022.


As soon as I stop starting
I know that I don’t belong,
Won’t write another poem,
Never write another song.

Put my pencil on the pad,
Shake ink droplets from my pen,
Caress my keyboard, slowly,
Here comes if and but and when.

Seems like all I have to do,
To get the magic going,
Is to write the first words down,
Then my juices start flowing.

But if I prevaricate,
Leave cap screwed on my ink pot,
There’ll be nothing in future
To make folks forget me not.

Harry Rogers, in the Red Bedroom,
24th July 2022


How ghastly this situation,
With liars in domination,
Their poison splashed across the truth,
Hardwired with manufactured proof.
Honesty trampled in the dust,
Integrity blown, shit or bust,
Ignore overarching danger,
Main thing? Keep control of manger.
Forde report confirms all our fears,
We laboured in vain through those years.
No comfort now in told you so,
No point to call for time to go.
That well? Defiled for evermore,
Tainted, spoiled, by Randian war.
Roaring silence clatters eardrums,
Something more wicked this way comes,
Ignored, it will not fade away,
Beware, new dogma has its day.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 24th July 2022


Companions of dishonour.

Even now he clings on to his monumental delusions. Cannot find the words to apologise for his actions that have demeaned the whole concept of parliamentary democracy. His failure to recognise his shortcomings only surpassed by his stupidity in believing that he was, and is, above the law, and could, and can, get away with anything. This last PMQs by Boris Johnson defied belief as the very people who voted to remove the canker from the despatch box whooped and cheered as he ignored every question as usual, laughed at his third class student debating society jokes and slanders and clapped vociferously in a standing ovation as he shuffled out the side door, hopefully never to return. His final riposte “Hasta La Vista, Baby”, though was strangely apt. Channelling Arnie in The Terminator fits Johnson and his ilk pretty well. His whole approach to politics is about the destruction of the status quo, the termination of any vestiges of integrity or democracy. What’s so incredible is that having been possibly the biggest liar ever to be Prime Minister and having to leave office in total disgrace he is already being rehabilitated by those who outed him and the right wing media. Headlines saying “What Have We Done?” appeared almost immediately. Rishi Sunak is being systematically knifed from all directions and it looks increasingly as if sorcerer’s apprentice Liz Truss will be his successor. The madness of the last few years will continue. Even now Truss will not openly criticise Johnson, she is banking on the Johnson supporters in the Tory Party membership coming over to her in the run off for Party Leader. This means that the mainstream news media programmes will/are already, be filled with analysis of what can only be described as right wing populist propaganda. It is highly unlikely that there will be that much political debate around alternative policies because this situation is not part of a proper democratic discussion because the vast majority of the people have no say whatsoever in the selection and election of the Prime Minister. Listening to Liz Truss defacating all over the British Government economic strategy of the last twenty years and saying that she will take the country in a completely different direction means, in my opinion, that she would have no democratic mandate and therefore ought to put her brave new world to the test of a general election. Of course this is highly unlikely to happen, why would it, after all this has become the norm in British politics. As for any realistic opposition from across the floor of Westminster I am not holding my breath. The Starmeroids have embroiled themselves in a furore of their own making with the release of the long awaited Forde report. So, whilst the deafening silence on this issue continues in the MSM and amongst extreme centrists, internally Labour is in turmoil. They are hardly in a position to offer up a credible alternative to what can only be seen as another Tory disaster waiting to happen. in such a volatile situation there has never been a greater need for a Left alternative to Neo Liberal Labour.

Harry Rogers in my Covid infected misery, 22nd July 2022



Scramble! Scramble!
Bandits at ten o’clock
Cue Dambusters theme tune
Legacy photo shoot needed
Glossy coffee table biography
Waiting above bomb hatch doors
To be dropped all over Pimlico.
“Come in Tango Whiskey Alpha Tango,
This is a drill, repeat, a drill,
Do not strafe the Sunak residence,
Do not strafe the Sunak residence,
No spaffing the treasury.
Return to base, return to base,
Alpha Charlie awaits in the mess.”
“Roger Roger, Tango Whiskey Alpha Tango,
Bimbling back to base now,
Keep the Charlie in fridge,
Spaff spiff spoff over and out”

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 19th July 2022


When is a party
Not a party anymore?
When all socialists
Have shuffled off out the door?
When suitcases empty
Beyond long hand of the law?
When nobody knows
What the Labour leader’s for?
When democracy
Lies trashed on conference floor?
When extreme centrists
Dump policies they ignore?
When the NHS
Profits the rich, not the poor?
When Lord Mandleson
And his spads tot up the score?
When the traitors sneer
As cowards flinch evermore?
When the flag turns pink
Red no more in tooth nor claw?
Can someone help me
‘Cos I need to know for sure?
When is a party
Not a party anymore?

Harry Rogers in Nether Edge, 15th July 2022.

Transcript of my contribution on Not PMQs 13th July 2022

George Loveless – Tolpuddle Martyr


In these times of intense austerity it is important to remember those activists from times past who bravely stood against the tyranny of capitalist exploitation aided by the ruling class. On the 15th July The Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival returns. State Terrorisation of socialists, and trades unionists such as the Tolpuddle Martyrs continues today with Pritti Patel’s new laws designed to scare people away from participating in collective activism. This Tory government know their policies will lead the working class to use their only weapon, strike action, to challenge them. In the 19th century employers believed they had carte blanche to pay workers what they wanted. When the six agricultural workers, The Tolpuddle Martyrs, formed their friendly society they made it clear that they would not work for less than ten shillings a week, the employers cut wages to seven shillings per week and were proposing to cut to five shillings a week. The activism led to the state using arcane legislation to their deportation to Australia as common criminals. 800,000 people marched in London a year later in one of the biggest demonstrations in history up to that date and the sentences were overturned. The Trade Union and Labour movement owes a massive debt to these workers who stood up to their oppressors, and it is right to celebrate their memory. I find it interesting that today the modern Labour Party offers little solace or support to workers whose pay has been decimated by over a decade of austerity and pay cuts, especially in the service sectors. It is encouraging to see trade unionists making a stand as the economy is careering into recession. We all look across the myriad of social media platforms and see disenchanted socialists who’ve left the Labour Party or been expelled, as they call for an alternative party of the Left. This is proving tricky as there are entrenched historic ideological differences between the existing left groupings. Attempts to pull together a socialist alliance to challenge Labour as an electoral alternative have failed time and again throughout my 75 years of existence. To be frank I get pissed off at the constant nitpicking about which group has the correct line. Starmer and the extreme centre, the Tories, the CIA, and all the capitalist shits across the planet love it when the Left tear lumps out of each other instead of focusing on the Neo Liberal enemies in Parliament. In my view it is sad that the Jeremy Corbyn leadership was attacked so viciously by right wing and extreme centrists within the Labour Party. The administration, the bulk of the PLP and elements of the traditional labour movement conspired to bring about the failure of those of us worked so hard to make the For The Many Not The Few manifesto a reality. That manifesto was clearly popular with large sections of the electorate, as the 2017 election result clearly demonstrates. I worked hard in Ceredigion CLP as chair but, following the 2019 debacle when centrists conspired to bring about the downfall of Jeremy Corbyn, and then, in 2020, withdrew the parliamentary whip from him, I could, in all honesty, no longer remain in a party that behaved so despicably and in June 2020 I resigned from the Labour Party. I joined Left Unity Wales in September 2020 and am still a member. I am now one of 4 comrades from Wales on the National Executive Committee of Left Unity. As I see it this Tory government are still in power in large part because the extreme centre did not support LOTO and the manifesto drawn up by the Labour Party Membership. Now we see a government in crisis with a Starmer led opposition not able to offer even a modicum of support for trade unionists on strike fighting for a fairer deal in the teeth of the cost of living crisis. This is why large gatherings of socialists and trade union activists at events such as the Durham Miners Gala, Levellers Day, and The Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival are important for a a variety of reasons. I believe one of the most important of these is the affirmation of the importance of collective action against injustice inflicted upon workers. It is good for activists to know that they are not alone, that there is collective strength. The Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival takes place on 15th – 17th July. As the RMT, UNITE, and other unions stand firm with their members in struggle against the awful government such gatherings bring us all together. This weekend many of us involved in the fight for peace, justice and equality will be there organising together for a socialist future. LIVE, HOPE, ACT.

Harry Rogers, 13/07/2022

Join Left Unity here


Wot, No Pritti?

An election is in process
Before the rules are put in place.
On the news they call it progress,
A move away from past disgrace.
Candidates launch manifestos
Willy nilly on Twitter feeds,
The lesser known stand on tiptoes,
This helps to feed their ego needs.
“Look at me mum, I’m in the race,
To be the next Prime Minister,
Take a look at my smiling face.”
It’s all so bloody sinister.
But then it’s nowt to do with us,
Democracy lies beneath bus!

Harry Rogers, In The Red Bedroom , 12th July 2022


Graham Brady 1922 Committee Chair.

On that bright day long exit is over
There’ll be whooping and dancing in clover
Hooray we will cry, the BJ has gone,
So now the Tory circus carries on,
We will hear a lot more of same old song,
Stable sweeping always takes too long.
Shiny new Prime Minister emerges
Into winners enclosure, poll surges.
Headlines trumpet change as things stay the same,
News media gets in line, same old game,
Countless column inches focus upon
Faux ugly beauty contest someone’s won.
Abuse of democracy just begun.
We fall for Tory three card trick again,
Leadership imposed, indefinite reign.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 11th July 2022.


Empties cleared away, photo albums packed,
Suits and ties mothballed, cardboard boxes stacked.
Sat alone in geometric nightmare,
Phone now silent, no product on his hair,
Blonde bombshell awaits toot from moving van.
Silence so strange now for yesterday’s man.
No need to conjure up instant bluster,
Nor aphorisms ready to muster.
Diary emptied, no meetings today,
Dressing up clothes all safely packed away.
Ah but memories around him do swirl,
The parties, the jokes, too racy to tell,
Daydream turns into winter without snow,
Voice on stairs calls “Boris? It’s time to go.”…….

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


‘Ave anuvver beer Keir, ‘ave anuvver beer,
Old bill in Durham say yer in the clear.
Young Wesley Streeting keep yer powder dry,
Peter’s shelved yer application, don’t cry.
You an’ Ange ‘ave nicked the main chance today,
But are yer ready to come out to play?
Polls are a disaster, despite no fine.
Vox pops appalling all along the line.
Policies all ditched, start again from scratch,
Change yer tactics in middle of the match.
Go dahn Wimbledon wiv the ‘oi poloi,
Ignore picket lines, ya stupid boy,
Watch out, ‘cos when ya scrap yer Brexit plot
Lib Dems will likely filch the effing lot.

Harry Rogers in the Yellow Room, 8th July 2022.


How we cheered as Tory plotters
Plunged knives into Eton rotter.
Even before he stopped twitching
Some could not wait to start bitching.
Into the ring more hats are thrown,
“Oh no, not him”, I hear you groan,
This spectacle, “democracy”,
Is nothing but a fallacy.
There is one thing that we should note,
Prime minister without our vote.
But then we’ve seen it all before,
There’s no constitutional law.
Nineteen Twenty Two committee?
It all stinks of something shitty.

Harry Rogers in the Red Bedroom, 8th July 2022.


Dylyn the dog will run free at Chequers
Until summers end, so Johnson believes.
Even now he clings on to the trappings,
Unable to relinquish the dummy
Of Prime Ministerial privelege.
In his fevered mind he still has power,
Places total blame on all and sundry,
Sees no reason for any contrition,
Likens own supporters to animals,
With herd mentality the driving force
That pushed him out the door of number ten,
Fails to accept responsibility.
Now all the talk is of his legacy,
Shredders are buzzing, whitewash before tea

Harry Rogers, in the yellow room, 7th July 2022.


Spend our money on your war
Forget about the poor
Pass another nasty law
We all see what you’re for
Now you’re halfway out the door
And lies flow more and more
Everybody knows the score
You’ve become such a bore
Your ideas a running sore
Leave now we all implore
The pound falls through the floor
Feels like nineteen eighty four
Nothing left to restore
Snake no longer guarantor
You, rotten to the core
Should swim now to distant shore
Slip away power whore
Never owt like this before
You who saw work as chore
Immorality galore
Still not gone? Fetch a saw
We’ll cut you loose whilst you snore,
Get thee gone, smirk no more
No-one loves you anymore.

Harry Rogers in the yellow room, July 6th 2022.


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 ancient briar creep around spring 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 up sunny side of your house,
Tangle through branches of copper beech hedge
Let it wander where it’s wild way will go,
You’re gonna love it when it makes it’s show.

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

I watch plump honey bees fly 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 sweet honey comes
When sweet honey comes
That’s when I’m happy
When sweet honey comes

Outside is gloomy, skies are darkly grey,
Winter days icy cold, thick grass sodden,
Gales do blow, trees shed their leaves, branches creak,
Daylight fades early, only robins cheep,
Cold winds no longer roar across green hills,
Stair rods rain no more, leaves grow back on trees,
Sunshine beats down, oh how new grass does grow,
But how fresh smell of mowing cheers me so.

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