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Funeral blues

Annie — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 17:12:33 GMT

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the piano and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mouners 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 the love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Puck 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.

W.H.Auden

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Annie — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 09:46:38 GMT

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сюда!!!

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Annie — Thu, 24 May 2007 20:04:57 GMT

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Annie — Sat, 14 Apr 2007 19:40:08 GMT

Старое на новый лад...

Администрация сайта не несёт ответственности за синяки и ушиби набитые от того,что бы упали о стула потому,что Вас пробило на ха ха