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 box set, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling subtitles, the message It Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the last DVD you saw,
Let the viewer remember then one where Josh swore.
It was my North, my South, my East and West (Wing),
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought the wing would last for ever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the coffee and sweep up the wood,
For TV now can ever come to any good.
RIP The West Wing