Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Leave your dogs barking with many a juicy bone,
Tinkle the piano and bang the drum
Bring out the readers, let the authors come.
Let helicopters circle whirring overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘this one’s dead’,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the scene of crime policemen wear forensic gloves.
All, from the North, the South, the East and West,
Abandon working week and Sunday rest,
From noon, through midnight, they talk, they sing;
Hoping it can last forever, on a prayer and a wing…
The perps are not wanted now: bang up every one;
Pack up your troubles and grab a Bettys bun;
Pour away with that wine as one very, very should.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.