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 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 own a Harley Davidson
And a Triumph Bonnevile
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 doing time,
Married with three kids up by the ring road;
Sold their soul straight down the line.

And some of them own little sport cars
To meet at the tennis club do's
For drink 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.
Oh, 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
A hundred and twenty, with no room left to brake.

And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll
But he was too young to die.
Oh, he was too old to Rock'n'Roll
But he was too young to die.

No you are never too old to Rock'n'Roll
If you're too young to die.
No, you are never too old to Rock'n'Roll
But he was too young to die.