text: 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 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
  And 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
  And he was buried like a mole in a fox hole
  And everyone 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 memories of a man in his old age
  Are the deeds of a man in his prime
  You shuffle in gloom in the sickroom
  And talk to yourself as you die