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 old to Rock'n'Roll
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 old to Rock'n'Roll
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 old to Rock'n'Roll
But he was too young to die
No, you're never too old to Rock'n'Roll
If you're too young to die