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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 --- |
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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 in his |
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Now he’s too old to Rock’n’Roll but he’s too young to die. |
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yes he was 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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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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