November
Saturday 8 November 2008 photo 1/1
|
<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Nästan 11 år av lycka tog slut idag
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silencd the pianos and woth muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffick policemen wear black cotton gloves
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
She 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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismatle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweap up the wood:
For nothing now can ever come to any good
<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">
Scribbling on the sky the message She is dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffick policemen wear black cotton gloves
Annons
Visa toppen
Show footer