There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old. In fact I think I've died about six hundred times. There's less of me now and more of me then. I'm moving back to the age of men. Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit. Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet. Soft lenses grow to glasses. Small world dimly seen through cataracts. Your program newspaper. So they say. Rumour spread by word of mouth jump onto the escalator. Press the button on the lift raise the dust on old stair carpets. Endless treads like waves of regret. Now it seems I'm going madder. Falling off this rotting ladder. Soft lenses grow to glasses. Small world dimly seen through cataracts. Jump onto the escalator. Press the button on the lift. Raise the dust on old stair carpets. Endless treads like waves of regret. Now it seems I'm going madder. Falling off this rotting ladder. Your program newspaper. So they say. Rumour spread by word of mouth. Jump onto the escalator. Press the button on the lift. Raise the dust on old stair carpets. Endless treads like waves of regret. Now it seems I'm going madder. Falling through this rotting ladder. There's something in your soul that makes me feel so old. In fact I think I've died about six hundred times. There's less of me now and more of me then. I'm moving back to the age of men. Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit. Outside the office hangs the man on the gibbet. Jump off the tarmac there's no stagecoach speed limit. Outside the office swings the man on the gibbet.