Остановить часы,выключить телефоны...funeral blues

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 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...