Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the Selwyns barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the normals and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let combine harvesters circle in the sun
Scribbling on the fields the message He is Gone,
Put cr?pe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let Ruddy, Nash and Bunn 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 mug would last forever: 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.*

*except the norridge and ricky van wolfswinkel. OTBC

Posted By: matt in london, Jul 8, 20:19:26