1, 2, 3, 4! 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 In the twinkling of an eye 80 years with luck or even less So all aboard for the America 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 . . . That you are the angel of death And I am the dead man's son And 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 . . . . . . . .