The old rocker wore his hair too long, wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams
The transport cafe --- Prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams in his post-war-babe gloom.
Now he's too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, but he's too young to die.
Yes he's too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, but he's too young to die.
He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
And prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
And all of his mates are doing time:
Married with three kids up by the ring road
Sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars
And meet at the tennis club dos.
For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.
Now they're too old, old, old to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, and they're too young to die.
Now they're too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, and they're too young to die.
So the old rocker gets out his bike to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner just like it used to be.
And as he flies --- Tears in his eyes
His wind-whipped words echo the final take.
And he hits the trunk road doing around 120
With no room left to brake.
And he was too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, but he was too young to die.
No he was too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, if you're too young to die.
No, you're never too old, old, old, to rock 'n' roll, roll, roll, if you're too young to die.
