This poem was read out at the funeral in the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral and I dedicate to a cousin that I love and hold dearly to my heart Joseph Msika Junior. Joe lost his dad on Friday the 20th of June 2008. Joe's dad was a medical doctor and he had just attended to two patients when he just collapsed and died..in the line of duty!!!! When I got to the hospital where BaJoe worked, they had not yet put away his body. My heart broke when I watched them remove his watch and valuables and hand over the rest of his belongings over to Joe ...I wept. Joe's dad loved him and Joe loved him too but his biggest regret right now is that he never got to say it to his dad's face that he loved him even though he did. I choose to believe that he knew that Joe and his other children loved him
Rest in Cousin Wilfred aka BaJoe or Blaz the Good Doc Willy. Your son Joe and the entire family will miss you.
Funeral Blues
By W.H.Auden
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 on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe 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 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 ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Rest in Cousin Wilfred aka BaJoe or Blaz the Good Doc Willy. Your son Joe and the entire family will miss you.
Funeral Blues
By W.H.Auden
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 on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe 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 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 ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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