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´s dreams - The transport caf´ prophet of doom Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams, in his post-war baby-gloom
Chorus: Now he´s too old to rock´n´roll but he´s too young to die yes he´s 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 he´s the last of the blue blood greaser boys And all his mates are doin´ 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 do´s For drinks on a Sunday - work on Monday They´ve thrown away their blue suede shoes
Chorus: Now they´re too old to rock´n´roll but they´re to young to die Yes they´re 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 rock´n´roll And he was too young to die