Pink Floyd: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 gloom of the 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 foxhole,
And everyone is still in the run.

And who is the master of foxhounds?
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 of the sickroom
And talk to yourself till you die.