Funeral Blues (stop all the clocks) - A Climate Change Version

Stop all the clocks, turn off your mobile phone,
Prevent the ice caps from melting with an ice cream cone,
Silence the birds and with muffled drum
Bring out Mother Earth, let the mourners come.

Let hurricanes circle roaring overhead,
Scribbling away the sky the message 'She is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the necks of extinct doves,
Let the fjords and lakes wear black cotton gloves.

She 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 life would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are all gone now; extinguished each one;
Packed in is the moon, dismantled the sun,
The ocean is drowning, burnt up is the wood;
Act now before nothing can come to any good.