Britten: Funeral Blues

Britten: Funeral Blues - Mary Carewe

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

Tie 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 could 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 wood

For nothing now can ever come to any good

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