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-babe gloom Now he's too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll but he's too young to die Yes, he's too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll but he's too young to die 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 All of 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 ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll and they're too young to die Yes, they're too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll 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 120 With no room left to brake And he was too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll and he was too young to die Oh, he was too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll and he was too young to die No, you're never too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll if you're too young to die No, you're never too ol-ol-old to Rock 'n' Roll-oll-oll But he was too young to die