Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bones.

Slience 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 around the white necks of the public doves.

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my Nourth, my South, my East and West.

My working week and my Sunday rest.

My moon, 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 everyone.

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now are evercome to any good.