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 belts 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   Yes, 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 greasers boys   And 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   And 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 a 120   With no room left to brake      And he was too old to rock 'n' roll   But he was too young to die   He was too old to rock 'n' roll   And he was too young to die      No, you're never too old to rock 'n' roll   If you're too young to die   [Incomprehensible] never too old to rock 'n' roll   But he was too young to die