(With apologies to) W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the Internet,
Prevent the Dogs from barking with an Eagles get,
Silence the Dockers with reminders of Drum
Bring out the Hawks flag to show Purple Scum.
Let Bombers circle bleating overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message Hird Is Dead,
Put Black and Gold bows round the white necks of the Sydney Swan,
Let the traffic policemen ask “where has Mr Wrap gone?”
He was my North (Melbourne), my South (Fremantle), my East (Perth) and West (Adelaide),
My Friday advisor and my Monday made,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that Wrap would return: was I wrong?
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the Giants and dismantle the Sun;
Put down the Cats and sweep up (Colling) wood’s.
For none matched his wit and his praise of the Goodes.