One two three 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 Life is a short warm moment And death is a long cold rest You get your chance to try 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 But mind how you go
and I can tell you cause I know You may find it hard to get off But you are the angel of death And I am the dead man s son He was buried like a mole in a fox-hole And everyone s still on the run And who is the master of foxhounds And who says the hunt is begun And who calls the tune in the court-room And who beats the funeral drum |
|