I'll see you at the Weighing-In,

when your life's sum-total's made

and you set your wealth in Godly deeds

against the sins you've laid.

And you place your final burden

on your hard-pressed next of kin:

Send the chamber-pot back down the line

to be filled up again.



And the hard-headed miracle worker

who bathes his hands in blood,

Will welcome you to the final nod ---

and cover you with mud.

And he'll say, ``You really should make the deal,''

as he offers round the hat.

``You'd better lick two fingers clean ---

He'll thank you all for that.''

As you slip on the greasy platform,

and you land upon your back,

You make a wish and you wipe your nose upon the railway track.

While the high-strung locomotive,

with furnace burning bright,

Lumbers on --- you wave goodbye ---

and the sparks fade into night.



And as you join the Good Ship Earth,

and you mingle with the dust ---

you'd better leave your underpants

with someone you can trust.

And when the Old Man with the telescope

cuts the final strand ---

you'd better lick two fingers clean,

before you shake his hand.