[tri-wings] Stop all the clocks

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 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 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.

Author unknown



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