Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with his dirty bone
Silence the pianos and the muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

The aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is dead'
Put crêpe bows 'round the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves

He was my North, my South, my East, my West
My working week, my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought the love would last forever: I was wrong

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

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought the love would last forever...