Stop all the clocks, cut off the Almanac,
Floreat Pica’s manic frenzy to honour fallen Mac,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, for Embley’s stumblebum.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message Eagles Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the grieving Freo Dockers,
A sullen western sunrise when both teams put in shockers.
They were my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday jest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that finals would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: not a glint of Nic Nat;
The bravest of Jolley’s made him look flat;
Pour away the ocean and Eddie’s Collingwood;
Six months to lament – the Pies were too good.
(Apologies to WH Auden)