Edwin Hopper

Brexit

Course I hate this damned EU.
It's time we had our Waterloo.
...

The wife and me are respectable.
Quiet lives in our own mobile home.
We do as we're told, and we're sensible,
except for her damn garden gnome.
...

Homeless soldiers in the vaulting,
under Sainsbury in the Maltings,
where Skripal parked his gas filled car,
saw him walk to Bishops Mill bar.
...

I remembered wind and wild white horses,
when I heard Mike read his poem on waves.
Ski boats, bikinis, tropical forces.
But water, can be still as the grave.
...

In unkempt yards of privacy,
supping coal from hollow hills.
In old tin sheds, where few folk see,
there's dragons, live in Britain still.
...

It's an unproductive life for sure.
Each month the same as the one before.

The only lock down difference I've seen.
...

The razor pink sliver of a new moon,
peers through trees to a land that's not immune.

Star light shines, through skies where no one flies.
...

We travel all day on dark motorways.
And come to Wark north of The Wall.
The land where grandparents used to play,
And old stories seem a little too tall.
...

Novichok told Salisbury this might come.
But we didn't believe. We never believe.
It can't happen. The Ruskies aren't dumb.
We'll never perceive that we'll ever grieve.
...

An abandoned lover learns his fate.
Drowns all sorrows at the Winnie Gate.
But don't hate mate, the chance is great.
This magic night you'll get a date.
...

Driving home down a Wiltshire avenue.
Past a stone age mound and a gypsy camp.
Thatched houses. The sign of a pub I knew.
A classic motor, on a garage ramp.
...

She said “I know you’ve a book of your own.
You can still go visit the library.”
Then, she must be offering me a loan.
She’s nice, so it won’t take bribery.
...

In the lunchtime bar of Jude The Obscure
Emma rocks Callum, her gorgeous baby boy.
He laughs with innocence that’s utterly pure.
Old boozers frowns turn to something like joy
...

In cold dark away from the cities bright,
with engine turned off, and blanket tight,
a lonely working trucker, sleeps tonight.
...

There is no rhyme for orange,
according to my mate Ange.
So, please, let your thoughts all range,
in old English good or strange,
...

If you're fed up with the tired old cliché,
bored dancing at the local palais,
if you want a place that's really risqué,
then drive out beyond the street lights and stray,
...

Remember happiness is rare and not a right
If you trust someone to share your day
Hold on to their love in the warm bed night
...

I’ve always worked for the greater good.
Of course Buckingham Palace know my name,
But I’ve never found parking at Abbey Wood
...

Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.
The nurse takes my bed pan with a fake smile
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June
...

No I am not a man to hold the stage.
My brains aren't overly endowed
I daydream quietly and write a page
...