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
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