2. Stop All The Clocks, Cut Off The Telephone
©
Author: Ned Rorem
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 coffins, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message "He is dead!"
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffic policement wear black cotton gloves

He was my North, my South, my East, 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 and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can come to any good.