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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 ‘It is Dead’. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
You are my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
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