Rosco Vidal, a seasoned traveller peddling illness, infirmity and death, expects that his journey will soon come to an end as certain agencies plot his demise. However, he delights in finding that his ongoing passage to further shores is facilitated by weak, corrupt, grasping and ignorant governments, and sings… “Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine such a thing, When I arrived unheralded, the death and chaos I could bring, encouraged by your unpreparedness, and governments that can’t have cared less, you give me opportunity, to travel with impunity, embrace close-knit community, pin hopes on herd immunity. So I stop your meetings, halt your praise, disrupt your lives in many ways, No weddings, parties, concerts, plays; say goodbye to holidays. Your leaders abuse autonomy, you’re sacrificed for the economy, Trump endorses wild prescriptions, Boris’ chums ignore restrictions, Scomo sidelined, feeling minor, tries to start a war with China! So you hide behind your own front door, because you’re old, or your health is poor, Vaccines have arrived too late, this Trojan horse is inside the gate”. Emma Lovely, a young nurse working in the National Health Service, rues her situation whilst sanding in line and waiting for a hand out from a food van. She laments… “For seven years I’ve worked on wards (now people clap me in the street), It’s a shame my kids can’t eat applause (I still can’t seem to make ends meet), But I noticed on the bus today, you upped and moved further away, Seems not all appreciate……. my sacrifice”. Mathilda Grey, a retired ex-matron from the aforementioned institution, sits in a reclining chair, taking in the world unfolding through the window of her room in an old folk’s home, and muses… “In residential care I will see out what remains, of a life spent nursing citizens with various complaints, Now surrounded by the vulnerable, the old and the infirm, I can only hope that no-one on the staff brings in the germ, Its plain to me the government intends to wait and see, More money for the hospitals without the likes of me, A burden now I’m old so I will be …… a sacrifice”. Boris Buffoon, clown in residence and unkempt protector of the sacred economy, stands on the front door step of Number 10, claps a nurse or two, and then tries to reassure a frightened (and soon to be dying) population that, despite what’s happening elsewhere in the world, a stiff upper lip, a cup of tea and a quick return to normal workalike is the British way. He blusters… “The scientists have got it wrong (I’ve had it and it’s not that bad), You won’t be ill for very long (Stay at home? You must be mad!), A social distance is all we ask, go to work, just wear a mask, Don’t dramatise, or roll your eyes and above all……sanitise!” Mathilda, acutely aware of the muffled coughing that accompanies the comings and goings in the corridor outside her room, reflects on her own predicament - isolated from what’s left of her family, but exposed to her part-time ‘carers’. She reveals… “The coughing has abated from old Peter in Room 9, But Doris has a fever in the room right next to mine, The nurse on nights turns out moonlights in a hotel in the square, and I’ve been told that travellers have been quarantining there, If I drink disinfectant whilst standing in bright light, it has been suggested that it might turn out alright, Another bloody idiot with another bloody lie! I wonder if they’ll test me, when I come to make …… my sacrifice?” Emma, exhausted, overworked and under-appreciated, sits on the edge of her bed after a very long shift. Her head cradled in her hands, the stink of death surrounding her like a cloud of flies. She sobs… “The ICU is full again (with different patients every day), It seems that everywhere’s the same, (cancer care goes by the way) The vaccine might have just occurred, too late for the weaklings in the herd, I bet the businessmen preferred….. to make no sacrifice?”

When the sunlight fails to pierce the ever-deepening clouds, And the oceans rise to claim each new Atlantis, proud, It will be too late, to cry and wring our idle hands, What have they done? When we gaze out, over the salted fields where nothing grows, The green and living land confined to memory, It will be too late, to halt the march of Vulcan’s hoards, What have we done? Too late! Too late! The birds flew south, and never returned, We took the light and turned it into darkness, Gone in the smoke of the black we burned. And now we’re told the world is dying faster than we though, Fire and flood the hefty price for the comfort that we sought, But the bloated fools, some chose to rule, say everything is fine, When they sold their souls for oil and coal, they should have bought a spine. The targets set will not be met whilst they deny the need, So we won’t be forced to change our course from selfishness and greed, And its much too late to set things straight, so we whine for all we’re worth, And the meek….. shall inherit what’s left of the earth. Too late! Too late! All hope went south and sea levels rise, Ignored the signs, sit back as life declines, We’ll be gone in the smoke of political lies Child’s Voice, spoken :- I found a box today, out the back, by the dead tree. My great grandma had buried it there as a child and put some of her favourite things in it, with a note saying: “To whomsoever finds this in the future!”. There was a picture of her sitting where the lake used to be. She looked carefree and happy. My mum said I should make a time capsule just like it and we started to talk about what I might put in it. But my dad just said, “What’s the point? What can we leave them that will make them think better of us?” I didn’t really understand what he meant at the time, but I cried myself to sleep that night and my tears made me think, I would leave them water, if I could. Too late! Too late! (Where did our Eden go?) The rich flew up and never came down, They took our toil and fashioned our extinction, We’re gone in the smoke of our cities and towns…..

Instrumental

A broken land left far behind A war that faceless men designed Sacrificed everything Except our lives and the clothes we’re in Strangers crowded on the sea I pull my children close to me Icy wind and freezing water Nature offers us no quarter It doesn’t matter where we land ‘Cos the people there will understand We flee from hunger Flee from war Desperate for some foreign shore To raise my children, make a life Not living balanced on a knife Finding a dream of home With engine dead, the growing waves Determine how the boat behaves Water spills across the side Relentless with the surging tide The moon that lit our growing fear Chooses now to disappear Behind the clouds that quietly formed And herald in the coming storm It doesn’t matter where we land ‘Cos the people there will understand We flee from hunger Flee from war Desperate for some foreign shore To raise my children, make a life Not living balanced on a knife Finding a dream of home Just finding a dream of home Tiny fingers, cold and pale Lose purchase on the flimsy rail Helpless, blind, my son and daughter Slide into the foaming water Frightened voices, desperate, sing To whichever cruel god they cling, But deity and man spectate Complicit in our awful fate I live through the darkest ages Back and forth through history’s pages Tried to walk a mile in their shoes In search of truths One mile, one truth Shines the loudest That nation’s epochs stand the proudest Built by those they would not have known Had they stayed home Come placid blue and morning air, no sign that we were ever there... Living in the darkest of ages Despair as we lay down the pages
Keep them out! is our final solution Denying natural evolution Comments pages; judge and jury Experts of the Daily Fury Can’t see that home’s not where you’re from But to where you’ve upped and gone Online sages, armchair racists Take care to bravely hide their faces Eminently qualified To countenance a genocide “Give those struggling foreign sons A taste of righteous naval guns Protect what I deserve by birth My ancestors got here first!” It seems to matter where we go, ‘cause on the foreign shore they don’t want to know, The things we’ve lost and the way we’ve suffered, they don’t care, They think we can’t make a life without stealing theirs, If we don’t beat the ocean, then c’est la vie, We’re not their problem when we’re out at sea, This was our dream of home. This was our dream of home.

Instrumental

I look in the mirror I don’t like what I see It seems on reflection that you’re no good for me How can you be so heartless? How can you be so cold? How can you be so heartless, heartless with me? Get down to business With us at apogee Controlling disinterest is what you hold in me How can you be so ruthless? How can you be so hard? How can you be so ruthless, ruthless with me? There was a time when I could do no wrong (not so very long ago) A time when I had something you sought (that could not be bought) But that was before your hostile makeover That was before your change of heart How can you be so heartless? How can you be so cold? How can you be so heartless? How can you be so cold? How can you be so heartless, heartless with me?

I know what you look like on the inside I know what it takes to keep you here But the things I had to see And the things I had to do Hurt me too You were broken when you came to me, You weren’t aware I was breaking too And you could never know I had the pressure on me grow To let you go And I don’t know why the fear inside me haunts me every night And conscience screams in broken dreams that I might not be right The morning you awakened Your agony sketched sorrow in the air The days rolled into weeks And the weeks stretched into months With you still there And I recall a golden day When free of chains you walked away Though all could see the clouds were looming low And turning back, so clear to view That pain had overtaken you Not time to go The crimson flowers bloom in the hours that should have brought us sleep But never peace enough to close my eyes The veiled looks and backroom chat denied me any hope of that And chance of laying down this burden dies I know what it looks like from the outside To everyone I have the perfect life But those things I’ve had to see And those things I’ve had to do, Hurt others too When I call for them, they’re always there for me, But when they need me, I’m with you When they ask if I’m OK? It stirs up so much pain. So much pain! I have to choose, leave it behind And walk away, or lose my mind And hope that what I’ve built was not in vain Only I know what I faced to keep you from that ‘better place’ I hope you think that it was worth our pain?

I’m packin’ my suitcase, I’m leaving on the morning train, I’m getting out of this old city, Not coming back this way again, My baby’s gone and left me, left me with those blues again. And repeat.

Instrumental

Like the dust that settles all around me I must find a new home The ways and holes that used to give me shelter are all as one to me now But I, I would search everywhere just to hear your call And walk upon stranger roads than this one in a world I used to know before I miss you more... Than the sun reflecting off my pillow Bringing the warmth of new life And the sounds that echo all around me I caught a glimpse of in the night Oh but now, now I’ve lost everything I give to you my soul, And the meaning of all that I believed before Escapes me in this world of none, No thing, no-one And I would search everywhere just to hear your call And walk upon stranger roads than this one in a world I used to know before Oh, but now, now, now, now I’ve lost everything I give to you my soul, And the meaning of all that I believed before Escapes me in this world of none I miss you more You know I miss you more

You know that you’re no Pink Floyd? Stop trying to be Led Zep! Well, you start out fine but you soon lose your way Why don’t you figure out what you’re trying to say? Why don’t you write a proper song? A verse and a chorus and three minutes long It doesn’t have to tell a story It doesn’t even have to rhyme Orchestras belong in classical music If I want to hear a choir I’ll go to church! Just write a tune that’ll get our feet tapping Just write some words to make us happy! Why don’t you write a proper song? A verse and a chorus and three minutes long I know you play guitar, and your friends think you’re great But you don’t always need a solo in the middle eight! (You never listen!!) Why don’t you write a proper song? A verse and a chorus and three minutes long It doesn’t have to tell a story It doesn’t even have to rhyme

I’m packin’ my suitcase, I’m leaving on the morning train, I’m getting out of this old city, Not coming back this way again, My baby’s gone and left me, left me with those blues again. And repeat.

Instrumental