There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old   In fact, I think I've died about six hundred times   There's less of me now and more of me then   I'm moving back to the age of men      Jump off the tarmac, there's no stagecoach speed limit   Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet   Soft lenses, grow to glasses   Small world, dimly seen through cataracts      Your program, newspaper   So they say      Rumor spread by word of mouth   Jump onto the escalator   Press the button on the lift   Raise the dust on old stair carpets      Endless treads like waves of regret   Now it seems, I'm going madder   Falling off this rotting ladder   Soft lenses, grow to glasses      Small world, dimly seen through cataracts   Jump on to the escalator   Press the button on the lift   Raise the dust on old stair carpets      Endless treads like waves of regret   Now it seems, I'm going madder   Falling off this rotting ladder   Your program, newspaper      So they say   Rumor spread by word of mouth   Jump onto the escalator   Press the button on the lift      Raise the dust on old stair carpets   Endless treads like waves of regret   Now it seems, I'm going madder   Falling through this rotting ladder      There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old   In fact, I think I've died about six hundred times   There's less of me now and more of me then   I'm moving back to the age of men      Jump off the tarmac, there's no stagecoach speed limit   Outside the office, hangs the man on the gibbet   Jump off the tarmac, there's no stagecoach speed limit   Outside the office, swings the man on the gibbet