Auden's Funeral Blues paraphrase

Stop all the clocks, cut off the throats,
Prevent the dolls from crying with a perky voice,
Silence the children and with muffled drum
Bring out the golden calf, let the worshippers come.

Let bloggers surf moaning in the Internet
Scribbling on their webs the message God is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public whores,
Let the NBA players wear black calf gloves.

He was my home, my mouth, my skin and breast,
My rotten week and my Sunday rest,
My doom, my insight, my lock, my song;
I thought boredom 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 no one now can say You were any good.