One , two, free, four...
The memories of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime.
You shuffle in the gloom of the sick-room
And talk to yourself as you die.
And life is a short warm moment,
And death is a long cold rest.
You’ll get your chance to try
In the twinkling of an eye;
Eighty years with luck or even less.
So all aboard for the American tour
And maybe you’ll make it to the top.
And mind how you go
And I can tell you ‘cause I know:
You may find it hard to get off.
And you are the Angel of Death
And I am the dead man’s son.
He was buried like a mole in a foxhole
And everyone’s still on the run.
And who is the master of foxhounds?
And who says the hunt has begun?
And who calls the tune in the courtroom?
And who beats the funeral drum?
The memories of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime.
You shuffle in the gloom of the sick-room
And talk to yourself as you die.
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