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 (but not my British Eagle 1-11 sniff....)
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Retire - ed,
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, or wherever I was vectored by Vatsim
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my boeing;
I thought that it would last for ever: I was wro-ing????
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; we'll go IFR til kingdom come
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.