Britain First has deeply ignoble form on trying to 'hijack' the poppy to increase their popularity and donations.
I have a dog. It's an English mastiff called Dolly. Her middle name is Poppy.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
In Flanders fields the poppies grow / between the crosses, row on row.
Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
Poppy doesn't really like interviews.
I love Remembrance Sunday.
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy's bonfire spread.
Truth, like the juice of the poppy, in small quantities, calms men; in larger, heats and irritates them, and is attended by fatal consequences in excess.
I recognise fully why people wear poppies, I totally respect everyone's right to do so and I have total sympathy for anyone who has lost loved ones due to conflict.
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.
All panegyrics are mingled with an infusion of poppy.
Have we so soon forgotten those four years of terrible carnage, the greatest war of all time; forgotten the millions of men who gave their lives, who made the supreme sacrifice and who today, beneath the soil of France and Belgium, sleep the eternal sleep?
She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.
