Stop all the clocks, no agent on the phone,

Prevent the Dog in the Night Time from barking with juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum

Bring out the theatre’s coffin, no audience to come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Passengers inside sardined yet ‘no to theatres’ they said.

It was my Girl from the North Country, my South Pacific, my Stratford East, my West Side Story,

My eight shows a week, no Sunday rest.

My noon til midnight, my lines, my song;

I thought that it would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; retrain every one,

Pack up the set-designs, dismantle Chekhov’s gun,

Pour away The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and sweep up Into The Woods,

For you’re over, finished, the curtain’s fallen. You’re not viable. Understood?