When age has me stripped of all but my wit,
And even the ability to clearly express it,
As I sit in queue lining up for the grave,
Listening to others and the excuses they made,

Of why they were born and why they were young,
And all of the things they have or not done,
What accomplishment or feat could be fit to tell,
To hold claim to a mark on this earth of a hell?

Time will not stop for me, I get older,
Death's not what I fear, I fear saying it's over.
When I'm leaving this life to what they call death,
Will relief or disappointment release my last breath?

Chorus:
Anything, anything, anything, anything,
To live on after I die.
Anything, anything, anything, anything,
To know I can die satisfied.
To feel serene--anything, anything, anything,
To render my life justified

What I'll have at my side when I stand alone,
Reasons or excuses to present at God's throne,
I'll yamble like a bore unwilling to see,
That thing that impressed none other than me.

So what is the secret of making life worth,
The time we are spending in walking the earth?
What kind of things make me feel alright?
Getting a raise everyday and laid every night?

Escaping or accepting either pleasure or pain?
Even "leaving a mark" seems rather in vain,
If it's all gonna pass--go to heaven or hell--
Leave a mark or leave none, it seems just as well.

Chorus:
Anything, anything, anything, anything,
To live on after I die.
Anything, anything, anything, anything,
To know I can die satisfied.
To feel serene--anything, anything, anything,
To render my life justified