| 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. |
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