The old rocker wore his hair too long,
Wore his trouser cuffs too tight
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 sparked plugs
And prays he always will
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
And all 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 leaves
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.