| 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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| But he was too young to die |