Lest we forget

Funeral Blues

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 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 woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

With Matt our squad leader and comrade in arms departing to the wilds of Asia.
Possibly never to be seen again, we wish you all the best.

Should the worst happen, the mafia kidnap you and demand a ransom.
Start to worry as our phones will fall silent.

Your golden locks will be your savior.
For in the bars of Serenban they are in favour.

All the best