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