The mem'ries of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime
You shuffle in gloom in 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:
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
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 burried like a mole in a fox hole
And ev'ryone is still on [bad word] 
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 [bad word] 

The mem'ries of a man in his old age
Are the deeds of a man in his prime
You shuffle in gloom in the sick room
And talk to yourself as you die