The memories of a man in his old age   Are the deeds of a man in his prime   You shuffle in the gloom of a 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   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 the gloom of a sickroom   And talk to yourself as you die