Too Old to Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young to Die! lyrics

Cut along the dotted line --- slip in and seal the flap.
Postal competition crazy, though you wear the dunce's cap.
Win a fortnight in Ibiza --- line up for the big hand out.
You'll never know unless you try --- what winning's all about ---
be a quizz kid.
Be a whizz kid.

Six days later there's a rush telegram
Drop everything and telephone this number if you can.

Just a little touch of make-up; just a little touch of bull;
just a little 3-chord trick embedded in your platform soul;
you can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist;
you can dance the old adage with a dapper new twist.
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium,
live and die upon your cross of platinum.
Join the crazed institution of the stars.

Salamander ---
born in the sun-kissed flame.
Who was it lit your candle ---
branded you with your name
I see you walking by my window
in your Kensington haze.
Salamander, burn for me
and I'll burn for you.

Shake a leg, it's the big rush,
can't find a taxi can't find a bus.
Bodies jammed in the underground
evacuating London town.
Nowhere to put your feet
as the big store shoppers and the pavements meet.
Red lights --- pin stripes --- short step shuffle into the night.
Tea time calls --- the Bingo Halls open at seven in the old front stalls.
How about a Taxi Grab.

From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you.
You won't remember the long nights;
coffee bars; black tights and white thighs
in shop windows where blonde assistants fully-fashioned a world made
of dummies (with no mummies or daddies to reject them).
When bombs were banned every Sunday and the Shadows played F.B.I.
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture ---

The mist rolls off the beaches:
the train rolls into the station.
Weekend happiness seekers --- pent-up saturation.
Well, we don't mean anyone any harm,
we weren't on the Glasgow train.
See you at the Pleasure Beach:
roller-coasting heroes.
Big Dipper riding ---
we'll give the local lads a hiding
if they keep us from the ladies
hanging out in the penny arcades.
Shaking up the Tower Ballroom

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.

Now if you think Ray blew it,
there was nothing to it.
They patched him up as good as new.
You can see him every day ---
riding down the queen's highway,
handing out his small cigars to the kids from school.
And all the little girls with their bleached blond curls
clump up on their platform soles.
And they say ``Hey Ray --- let's ride away
downtown where we can roll some alley bowls.''

The disc brakes drag,
the chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
The young man's home; dry as a bone.
His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.

The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,
touches the old man where he sleeps.

Fish and chips, sandpaper lips and a rainy pavement.
Soho lights, another night --- thinking of you.
Black cat, sat on a wall, winks at me darkly.
Suggesting ways and means that I might win a smile ---

As you leave the place where you work until 12.30
And the policemen nods as you pass along his beat.
Sweaty feet, troubled brow -- weâre all in the same game, lady.

Bad-yesân sheâs bad-eyed and sheâs loveless. a young manâs fancy and an old manâs dream. Iâm self raising and I flower in her company. give me no sugar without her cream. sheâs a warm fart at ch