One, two, three, fourOh, somewhere down the road, there's a ditch where there's a hole
Which marks the spot where you will lie when you are cold
And you can run, you can hide, you can bitch and you can whine
But you will never save your lifeWhen you meet death
Be out of breath
And say you're pleased to see him 'cause you're tiredNow you can go down with the wreck or you can scurry from the deck
But there's no way to save your skinny little neck
And you can pray to who you please, and you can fall down on your knees
But your feet will still get wetWhen you meet death
Be out of breath
And say you're pleased to see him 'cause you're tiredOf wondering how much time you've got left
Of worrying that you're no good at chess
It's your funeral anyway
Choose your game
Then let's playWhen you meet death
Be out of breath
And say you're pleased to see him
In fact you're waiting for this meeting
And quite frankly his timekeeping leaves a lot to be desired
So tell that [?] bastard that he's fired
Songwriters
FRANK TURNERPublished by
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management