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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 drank his ale too light |
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Death's head belts 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 |
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But he's too young to die |
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Yes, he's too old to rock 'n' roll |
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But he's too young to die |
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He once owned a Harley Davidson |
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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 greasers boys |
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And 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 |
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And they're too young to die |
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And they're too old to rock 'n' roll |
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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 a 120 |
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With no room left to brake |
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And he was too old to rock 'n' roll |
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But he was too young to die |
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He was too old to rock 'n' roll |
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And he was too young to die |
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No, you're never too old to rock 'n' roll |
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If you're too young to die |
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[Incomprehensible] never too old to rock 'n' roll |
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But he was too young to die |