Funeral Yellows

Funeral Yellows (with apologies to WH Auden)


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
The King is departing, now a vacant throne,
Silence the Barclay and with muffled drum,
Bow down your heads, and to Carrow Road come.

Let Norwich fans cry, utterly bereft,
Wailing out the message ‘Wes has left’,
Put yellow bows round the houses, pubs and clubs,
Dry the tear stained faces of the ones you love.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
His audacious cheek, his Saturday best,
His turns, his passing, his goals his song,
I thought that he would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are less bright now; he was the one,
Pack up his boots and dismantle the fun,
Pour away the magic, but remember him you should,
For nobody now will ever be as good.