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