I'll see you at the Weighing-In, when your life's sum-total's made,
And you set your wealth in goodly 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.
"Well, 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.

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