*FUNERAL BLUES*
stop the clocks. cut the telephone. prevent the dogs from barking with a juicy bone.
silence the piano with muffled drum. bring out the coffin. let the maorners come
let aeroplanes circle a moaning overhead. scribblin on the sky the message: "he is dead".
put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves.
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. he was my north, my south, east and west.
my working week. my sunday rest, my noon. my midnight. my talk. my song.
i thought that love could last for ever: i was wrong. the stars are not wanted now put out everyone
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun. pour away the ocean and sweap up the wood
for nothing now can come to any good.

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