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