(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 sickroom
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 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.
But mind how you go, and I can tell you, 'cause I know
You may find it hard to get off.

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 fox hounds?
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 sickroom
And talk to yourself as you die.

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