The Weekend is Dead

'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.'

(W H Auden, 'Funeral Blues')

'Buildings crashing down to a cracking ground
Rivers turn to wood, ice melting to flood
Earth lies in death bed, clouds cry water dead
Tearing life away, here's the burning pay'

(Black Sabbath, 'Electric Funeral')

I.

The clock was stopped,
The Nokia ring tone cut.
I dressed in black;
My funeral work suit.
It was a day of black coffee,
umbrellas and awnings,
cigarettes and local radio:
It was Monday morning.