Funeral

Stop all the clocks, cut off the phone,
Prevent the dog barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes curcle moaning overhead
Scribbing on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the public doves
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talking, my song;
I thought our love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(C) Copyright