England...
Mar 30th 2010 | 4:43 am
#1
Thread Starter
Pictou County Superstarâ„¢
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 4,219
From: On top of the Green hill, NS
England...
Mar 30th 2010 | 4:48 am
#2
BE Forum Addict
Joined: Nov 2009
Posts: 4,309
From: Somewhere in Hamilton, ON
Re: England...
Would love to comment but can't turn the sound back on the computer 
Mar 30th 2010 | 4:55 am
#3
BE Forum Addict
Joined: Mar 2002
Posts: 1,175
Re: England...
Was England nuked
Mar 30th 2010 | 4:56 am
#4
BE Forum Addict
Joined: Mar 2002
Posts: 1,175
Re: England...
Weird, the link shows up on my message but not on his
Mar 30th 2010 | 6:49 am
#6
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 11,272
Re: England...
is it that bad now?? might give it a body swerve this summer
Mar 30th 2010 | 7:12 am
#7
Born again atheist
Joined: Jul 2005
Posts: 30,259
From: Europe (to be specified).
Re: England...
It's where i had "summer" holidays in the 1950s.
Hasn't changed a bit.
Mar 30th 2010 | 9:27 am
#8
Settled.
Joined: Jul 2006
Posts: 3,286
From: St. Albert. AB.
Re: England...
the place or the bloody awful poetry, nothing more than a collection of odd one liners thrown together.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
Mar 30th 2010 | 10:48 am
#9
Thread Starter
Pictou County Superstarâ„¢
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 4,219
From: On top of the Green hill, NS
Mar 30th 2010 | 11:12 am
#10
Joined: Jan 2007
Posts: 11,272
Re: England...
the place or the bloody awful poetry, nothing more than a collection of odd one liners thrown together.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
Mar 31st 2010 | 4:34 am
#14
Thread Starter
Pictou County Superstarâ„¢
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 4,219
From: On top of the Green hill, NS
Mar 31st 2010 | 9:25 am
#15
Seasoned Maritimer
Joined: Jun 2005
Posts: 8,309
From: Fredericton, New Brunswick CA
Re: England...
the place or the bloody awful poetry, nothing more than a collection of odd one liners thrown together.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
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 love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
that's a poem for you.
