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I'll be a writer when I finally go deaf
In the manner of whoever they say is the best
Committing to paper the chances I have missed
The girls I have loved
The dogs I have kissed
The dogs I have kissed
The dogs I have kissed

I'll be a drunk when I finally go blind
Sharing a pint with whomever I find
Telling the secrets I'd never let out
Sharing a stout with whoever's about
Whoever's about
Whoever's about
Whoever's about

I'll be a bore when I finally go broke
I'll bum cigarettes and learn how to smoke
I'll have a good laugh everytime I am told
I should run for office now that I'm old
And I am old
I am old
I'm old
I am old

I'll be a preacher and I'll save all the souls
That burn down in Hell like a billion coals
And Jesus may sing through these strings
And the Devil may cry through these eyes
And the Virgin Mary may stage us that way
With this unlucky body
This unlucky body
This unlucky body

I'll be a writer when I finally go deaf
But I can't right away this new shortness of breathe
Is my body expressing some impossible desires
That I'm sure I'll take with me into the fires
Into the fires
Into the fires
Into the fires