Free Four Lyrics

	Lyrics：Waters Music：Waters Vocal：Waters
	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.

	Lyrics: Waters Music: Waters Vocal: Waters
	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.

	Lyrics: Waters Music: Waters Vocal: Waters
	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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