This poem, of course, owes more to WH Auden than my imagination. I’m sure he won’t mind, as I’d imagine he’d have been a John Peel fan.
For John Peel
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Shut down the radio stations: leave the dial alone,
Silence the piano, guitar, bass and drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let the airwaves be empty overhead
Leaving unsaid the message He Is dead,
Let the dancers be still – stop the techno beat:
Let the nightclub DJs pause, let the silence be complete.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West,
My top ten and my all-time best,
My 45, C60, my talk, my song;
I thought than John Peel would live for ever: I was wrong.
The rock stars are not wanted now: silence them all;
Pack up New Order, The Undertones, The Fall;
Put away the records and don’t play them again
For nothing now will ever sound the same