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,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
Traffic policemen used to wear white cotton gloves for visibility, but for the speaker these should now be black.  The speaker now wants to draw in those who do mundane jobs, as well has the more adventurous aeroplane pilots..
Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks