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.
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