Bring out the coffin, let the mourners e.
Let aero pnes cirbsp;moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white nebsp;of publibsp;doves,
Let the traffibsp;poli wear bbsp;cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My w week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would st forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;