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 caf´ prophet of doom

Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams, in his post-war baby-gloom



Chorus:

Now he´s too old to rock´n´roll but he´s too young to die

yes he´s too old ... etc.



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 his mates are doin´ 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 their tennis club

do´s

For drinks on a Sunday - work on Monday

They´ve thrown away their blue suede shoes



Chorus:

Now they´re too old to rock´n´roll but they´re to young to die

Yes they´re too old ... etc.



So the old rocker gets out his bike to make a ton before he takes his

leave

Upon 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

As he hits the trunk road doing around 120

With no room left to brake



Chorus:

And he was too old to rock´n´roll

And he was too young to die