Too Old To Rock'n'Roll, Too Young To Die Paroles

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 belts buckle - yesterday dreams
The transport "Caf" prophet of doom
Ringing no change in his double-sews 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 Borneville
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 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, but they're too young to die
So the old Rocker gets out his bike to make a ton
Before he takes his leave
Upon the Al 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
And he was too old to rock'n'roll, but he was too young to die