Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos with a muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message: he is dead
Put crêpe bows round the necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He as my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my sunday rest,
My moon, my midnight, my talk my song;
I thought would last forerver; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now, put out everyone,
Pack the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean, and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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