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Stop all the clocks

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Stop all the Cocks


Stop all the cameras, take down the drones,

Put Boris in a kennel with a juicy bone

Silence the sirens and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin; our pandemic is done

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky Covid 19 is dead,

Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.


Fear 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 Covid would last for ever: I was wrong.


The masks are not wanted now: take off every one;

Pack up the Guardian, BBC, Mail and Sun;

Pour away the Lords sweep the Commons’ dead wood.

For nothing with them ever came to any good.



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