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 the airplanes circle, moaning over head,
Scribbling on the sky the message.
She is dead.
Put great bows around the necks of public doves.
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
She was my north, my south, my east and my 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,
Dismantle the sun,
pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
for nothing now can ever come to any good.
I love you baby,
we will meet again one day and never have to part.
| Bubba |
| 17, Apr 2003 |
| Mel |