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 crêpe 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,
The poet deifies his lover by referring to him with capitals; ‘He’ and ‘Dead’.  To him, this was no mere mortal.  ‘Scribbling’ on the sky is something of a contradiction; ‘scribbling’ implies carelessness, but the sky suggests heaven. As with the reference to the dog’s juicy bone, there is a note of wry humour and flippancy.
Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks