The old rocker wore his hair too long, wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end - drank his ale too light. Deathґs head belt buckle - yesterdayґs dreams - The transport cafґ prophet of doom Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams, in his post-war baby-gloom
Chorus: Now heґs too old to rockґnґroll but heґs too young to die yes heґs too old ... etc.
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 heґs the last of the blue blood greaser boys And all his mates are doinґ 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 their tennis club doґs For drinks on a Sunday - work on Monday Theyґve thrown away their blue suede shoes
Chorus: Now theyґre too old to rockґnґroll but theyґre to young to die Yes theyґre too old ... etc.
So the old rocker gets out his bike to make a ton before he takes his leave Upon 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 As he hits the trunk road doing around 120 With no room left to brake
Chorus: And he was too old to rockґnґroll And he was too young to die