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-babe gloom.



Now he's too old to Rock'n'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

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 do's.

For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.

They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.



Now they're too old to Rock'n'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 to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.

No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.