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 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 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 love would last for ever: 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 wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Let me know where the Penis Removal Station is, since today I found myself, for the very first time ever, liking a Coldplay song. Life as I know it is over, and my move to England cannot come any sooner.
There's something Lisa Lisa Cult Jam + Life in a Northern Town + some of my favorite late 60's beach songs about it.
Christ. I knew I was getting old. I just didn't know I was getting THIS old.
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