Out Of Breath - Frank Turner

Oh, somewhere down the road

Well, there’s a ditch or there’s a hole

That marks the spot where you will lie when you are cold

And you can run and you can hide

And you can bitch and you can whine

But you’ll never save your life

When you meet death, be out of breath

And say you’re pleased to see him 'cause you’re tired

Now 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 wet

When you meet death, be out of breath

And say you’re pleased to see him 'cause you’re tired

Of 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 play

Yeah, when you meet death, be out of breath

And say you’re pleased to see him

In fact you’re waiting for this meeting

And well, frankly his time-keeping leaves a lot to be desired

So tell that hooded huckster that he’s fired