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Rolled out of bed, threw some water on my face |
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Twenty-five sit-ups and I run in place |
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I put the coffee on but the pot ain't clean |
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Yeah, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine |
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A handful of vitamins, drop them on the floor |
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My ex-girlfriends' are laughin' from the icebox door |
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I put their photos up there, yeah, we talk all the time |
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But they ain't talkin' back now, the pugilist is 59 |
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Cold chicken salad, a glass of iced tea |
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Phone bills, gas bills, electricity |
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And the mortgage and the junk mail, one old Father's Day card |
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Yeah, go sweat it out, kid, it's 108 in the yard |
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Water the lawn, trim them old trees |
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Pray that your gut don't fall down to your knees |
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And Archie Moore whispers in your ear: Get up, kid, you're in your prime |
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Now, now the champ's on the ropes, Arch, the pugilist is 59 |
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And the rock and the roll |
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And the fight for your soul goes on and on |
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You put on the gloves |
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You're always ready for love |
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Pray your passion ain't used up and gone, yeah |
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The harder we love, the harder we fall |
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It's cauliflower hearts and old medicine balls |
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And back street affairs in all the water tank towns |
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Well, there's a mighty thin line between a heavyweight champ and a used up old clown |
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But this is Hollywood, kid, fear strikes out |
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Miracles turn around one-sided bouts |
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Get off the floor, kid, the sweet science of them old romantic lines |
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Hey, the champs comin' back, boys, the pugilist is 59 |
|
And the rock and the roll |
|
And the fight for your soul goes on and on |
|
You put on the gloves |
|
You're always ready for love |
|
Pray your passion ain't used up and gone, yeah |
|
Roll out of bed, water on your face |
|
Twenty-five sit-ups - run in place |
|
You put the coffee on but the pot ain't clean |
|
I said, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine |
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Yeah, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine |
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I said, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine |
