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The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
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wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
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Unfashionable to the end --- drank his ale too light.
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Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---
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the transport caf' prophet of doom.
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Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
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in his post-war-babe gloom.
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Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but he's too young to die.
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He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
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Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
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and prays that he always will.
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But he's the last of the blue blood greaser boys
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all of his mates are doing time:
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married with three kids up by the ring road
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sold their souls straight down the line.
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And some of them own little sports cars
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and meet at the tennis club do's.
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For drinks on a Sunday --- work on Monday.
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They've thrown away their blue suede shoes.
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Now they're too old to Rock'n'Roll and they're too young to die.
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So the old Rocker gets out his bike
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to make a ton before he takes his leave.
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Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
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just like it used to be.
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And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---
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his wind-whipped words echo the final take
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and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
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with no room left to brake.
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And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll but he was too young to die.
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No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll if you're too young to die.
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Too Old To Rock 'n Roll, Too Young To Die
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| Jethro Tull |
