Artist: Jethro Tull Album: Too Old To Rock 'N' Roll: Too Young To Die! {1976}

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

Cut along the dotted line, slip in, 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
Yeah, be a quizz kid, be a

Six days later there's a rush telegram
Drop everything and telephone this number if you can
It's a free trip down to London for a weekend of high life
They'll wine you, dine you, undermine you - better not bring a wife
Be a quizz kid, be a whizz kid
Be a quizz kid, be

It's a try out for a quiz show that millions watch each week
Following the fate and fortunes of contestants as they speak
Answerable to everyone, responsible to all
Publicly dissected - brain cells spattered on the walls
Of encyclopedic knowledge - may be barbaric but it's fun
As the clock ticks away a lifetime, hold your head up to the gun
Of a million cathode ray tubes aimed at your tiny skull
May you find sweet inspiration, may your memory not be dull
May you rise to dizzy success, may your wit be quick and strong
May you constantly amaze us, may your answers not be wrong
May your head be on your shoulders, may your tongue be in your cheek
And most of all we pray that you may come back next week
Be a quizz kid, yeah, be a whizz kid, be
Quizz kid, yeah, whizz kid
Quizz kid, whizz kid
Quizz kid, whizz kid

Crazed institution to the stars

Just a little touch of make-up, just a little touch of bull
Just a little three-chord trick embedded in your platform soul
You can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist
And you can dance the old adage with a new dapper twist
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum
And join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you think you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are

Crawl inside your major triad, curl up and laugh
As your agent scores another front page photograph
Is it them or is it you throwing dice inside the loo
Awaiting someone else to pull the chain
Well grab the old bog-handle, hold your breath and light a candle
Clear your throat and pray for rain
To irrigate the corridors that echo in your brain
Filled with empty nothingness and empty hunger pains
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum
And join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you think you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are

Just a little touch of make-up, just a little touch of bull
Just a little three-chord trick embedded in your own platform soul
You can wear a gold Piaget on your Semaphore wrist
And you can dance the old adage with a new dapper twist
And you can ring a crown of roses round your cranium
Live and die upon your cross of platinum
And join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you think you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are
Join the crazed institution of the stars
Be the man that you know you really are

Salamander born in a 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, salamander, salamander
Burn for me and I'll burn for you

Taxi

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, a taxi grab

There's an empty cab by the taxi stand
Driver's in the caf� washing his hands
Big diesel idles, the key's inside
C'mon Sally, let's take a ride
Flag down, uptown, no sweat
For rush hour travel, it's the best bet yet
Taxi grab, taxi grab

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
Tea time calls - the bingo halls
Open at seven in the old front stalls
Taxi grab, taxi grab, taxi grab, taxi grab
Taxi grab, taxi grab, taxi grab, taxi grab

From a dead beat to an old greaser, here's thinking of you
You won't remember the long nights, coffee bars and 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 did FBI
And tired young sax-players sold their instruments of torture, sat in the station sharing wet dreams
Of Charlie Parker, Jack Kerouac, Rene Magritte, to name a few
Of the heroes who were too wise for their own good, left the young brood to go on living without them

Old queers with young faces who remember your name
Though you're a dead beat with tired feet, two ends that don't meet
To a dead beat from an old greaser, think you must have me all wrong
I didn't care, friend, I wasn't there, friend
If it's the price of pint that you need, ask me again

Yes, and she's bad-eyed and she's loveless
A young man's fancy and an old man's dream
I'm self-raising and I flower in her company
Give me no sugar without her cream

She's a warm fart at Christmas
She's a breath of champagne on sparkling night
Yes, and she's bad-eyed and she's loveless
Turns other women to envious green
Yes, and she's bad-eyed and she's loveless
She's a young man's vision in my old man's dream

The mist rolls off the beaches, the train rolls into the station, uh huh
Weekend happiness seekers, pent-up saturation, uh huh
Well, we don't mean anyone any harm, we weren't on the Glasgow train
I�ll see you at the Pleasure Beach, roller-coasting heroes, uh huh

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, throwing up in the bathroom
Landlady's in the backroom
Well, I'm the big dipper, it�s a weekend, big dipper it�s the weekend rage

Rich widowed landlady give me your spare front door key, uh huh
If you're thirty-nine or over, I'll make love to you next Thursday, uh huh
Well, I may stay over for a week or two, drop a postcard to me mum
I'll see you at the waltzer, we'll go big-dipping daily, uh huh

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, throwing up in the bathroom
Landlady's in the backroom
Well, I'm the big dipper, it�s a weekend, big dipper, it�s a weekend, big dipper it�s a weekend rage

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
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, prays that he always will
But he's the last of the blue blood greaser 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
Now, yes, 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 hundred and twenty with no room left to brake

And he was too old to rock 'n' roll and he was too young to die
Oh, he was too old to rock 'n' roll and he was too young to die
No, you are never too old to rock 'n' roll if you�re too young to die
No, you are never too old to rock 'n' roll, but he was 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."
And Ray grins from ear to here and whispers

So, follow me, trail along
My leather jacket�s buttoned up
And my four-stroke song will pick you up
When your last class ends
And you can tell all your friends
The Pied Piper pulled you
The mad biker fooled you
I�ll do what you want to
If you ride with me on a Friday anything goes

So, follow me, hold on tight
My school girl fancy�s flowing in free flight
I�ve a tenner in my skin tight jeans
You can touch it if your hands are clean
The Pied Piper pulled you
The mad biker fooled you
I�ll do what you want to
If you ride with me on a Friday anything goes

So, follow me, trail along
My leather jacket�s buttoned up
And my four-stroke song will pick you up
When your last class ends
And you can tell all your friends
The Pied Piper pulled you
The mad biker fooled you
I�ll do what you want to
If you ride with me on a Friday anything goes
The Pied Piper pulled you
The mad biker fooled you
I�ll do what you want to
If you ride with me on a Friday anything goes
On a Friday anything goes, on a Friday anything goes
Pied Piper, mad biker, Pied Piper, mad biker
Pied Piper, mad biker, Pied Piper, mad biker
Pied Piper, mad biker, Pied Piper

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
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
The nurse brings up a, a cup of tea
Two biscuits and the morning paper mystery
The hard road's end, the white gods-send
Is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive

The still-born child can't feel the rain
As the checkered flag falls once again
The deaf composer completes his final score
He'll never hear the sweet encore
The checkered flag, the bull's red rag
The lemming-hearted hordes running ever faster to the shore, singing
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive
Well, isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive
Well, isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive