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Stop all the cut off the telephone, |
| the barking a juicy bone, |
| the pianos and muffled |
| Bring out the coffin, let the come. |
|
| moaning |
| Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, |
| Put crepe round the white of the public doves, |
| the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. |
|
| He was my North, my South, my East and |
| My working week and my Sunday rest, |
| My noon, my midnight, my my song; |
| I thought that for I was wrong. |
|
| The stars not now: put out one; |
| Pack up the moon and the |
| Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. |
| For nothing now can come to |