Glenn Gemeiner

stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

silence the pianos and with the muffled drum

bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead

put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 

let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was your North, your South, your East and West,

your working week and your Sunday rest, 

your noon, your midnight, your talk, your song,

You thought that love would last forever, you were 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.

xxx