�Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,� � Silence the pianos and with muffled drum�
�Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
�Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
�Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
�Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
�� �My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; �I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. �He was my North, my South, my East and West, �My working week and my Sunday rest,� � � For nothing now can ever come to any good. �Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;�� �Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,� �The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
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Vocabulary - Phrasal Verbs
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