The mem'ries of a man in his old age Are the deeds of a man in his prime You shuffle in gloom in 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 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 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 And he was burried like a mole in a fox hole And ev'ryone is 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 mem'ries of a man in his old age Are the deeds of a man in his prime You shuffle in gloom in the sick room And talk to yourself as you die