Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Silence the pianos and with 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 crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves

Let the the was my north, my south, my east and west

My working week and my sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song

I thought that love would last for ever, 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 traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves