FUNERAL
BLUES
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Cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking With a juicy bone, Silence the piano and with Muffled drum bring out the coffin Let the mourners come. Let the aeroplane circle moaning Overhead scribbling on the sky The message 'He is dead'. Put the crepe bows round the white necks Of the public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. he was my north, my south, My east and west, my working week And my Sunday best, 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, Pull away the ocean And sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever Come to any good. |
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