Funeral Blues Mauden (Ft. W. H. Auden)
На этой странице вы найдете полный текст песни "Funeral Blues" от Mauden (Ft. W. H. Auden). Lyrxo предлагает вам самый полный и точный текст этой композиции без лишних отвлекающих факторов. Узнайте все куплеты и припев, чтобы лучше понять любимую песню и насладиться ею в полной мере. Идеально для фанатов и всех, кто ценит качественную музыку.
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
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 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
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'
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
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would 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
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come
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 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
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'
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
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would 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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