Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the (bratwurst-shaped) dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the (yips and/or) pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the (boogers and) mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle (the house each morning, barking and) moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message: He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the (red peppers? NO!) white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that (oversexed ankles and elbows and) love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the
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