ï¿½Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,ï¿½
ï¿½ Silence the pianos and with muffled drumï¿½
ï¿½Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
ï¿½Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
ï¿½Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
ï¿½Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
ï¿½My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
ï¿½I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
ï¿½He was my North, my South, my East and West,
ï¿½My working week and my Sunday rest,ï¿½
ï¿½ For nothing now can ever come to any good.
ï¿½Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;ï¿½ï¿½
ï¿½Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,ï¿½
ï¿½The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Vocabulary - Phrasal Verbs