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lyrics

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 in 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;
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 wood;
For nothing now can come to any good.

credits

from Tropic Corridor, released December 16, 2020
Wilfried Hanrath; backing track, original idea
Bill Boethius; guitar solos
Tom Hiddleston; voice
Wystan Auden; words [setting by Bill Boethius]

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Bill Boethius & Dali's Car London, UK

"The Dali of guitar noise".
Free improv,
Cinematic Sounds:
Strange Blues:
Cosmic Jazz,
Poetry settings,

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