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Funeral Blues - Frances Bourne

Written by：Benjamin Britten/Alexander Van Ingen/Daryl Runswick

Stop all the clocks cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Silence the pianos and with mled drum

Bring out the coffin let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message he is dead

Put crêpe 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