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 till 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 till you die.