Free Four

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 the gloom of 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

But mind how you go

And I can tell you 'cause I know

You may find it hard to get off

But you are the angel of death

And I am the dead man's son

He was buried like a mole in a foxhole

And everyone's still on the run

And who is the master of foxhounds?

And who says the hunt has begun?

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 the sick room

And talk to yourself as you die