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Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Funeral Blues for a Gay Nation

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 'Brits now gay'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

The English went North, South, East and West,
They would work and then on Sundays rest,
Now it is sex and shopping; women and song;
I thought they would fight gay marriage harder: 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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