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