Edwin Hopper


In the dawn road we crawl after our leader.
Cars and trucks behind a peddling bleeder.
White vans slow behind this racing biker,
sweating to his grave in clownish Lycra.

In Britain this friendless fool won’t be shot,
or run over, knifed in a ditch to rot.
The late for work mid-wife has no road rage.
The bus driver waits like a wise old sage

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