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.
And
he
was
buried
like
a
mole
in
a
fox
hole.
And
everyone
is
still
in
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
gloom
in
the
sickroom
And
talk
to
yourself
till
you
die.
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