Jethro Tull - Too Old To Rock 'N' Roll (1976) by Jethro Tull (보컬) on maniadb.com

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 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.
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 the wife --- be a quizz kid.
Be a whizz kid.

It's a try out for a quizz show that millions watch each week.
Following the fate and fortunes of contestants as they speak.
Answerable to everyone; responsible to all; publicity dissected ---
brain cells splattered on the walls of encyclopaedic 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.
Be a whizz kid.

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.
Be the man that you think (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, empty hunger pains.
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.
Be the man that you think (know) you really are.

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.

There's an empty cab by the taxi stand driver's in the cafe washing his hands.
Big diesel idles --- the keys 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.

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 ---
sat in the station sharing wet dreams of Charlie Parker,
Jack Kerouac, Ren'e 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'n 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'n she's bad-eyed and she's loveless.
Turns other women to envious green.
Yes'n 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.
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
I'm the Big Dipper
it's the weekend rage.

Rich widowed landlady give me your spare front door key
Uh-Huh!
If you're 39 or over, I'll make love to you next Thursday
Uh-Huh!
I may stay over for a week or two
drop a postcard to my mum.
I'll see you at the waltzer
we'll go big-dipping daily.
Uh-Huh!

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 folled you,
I'll do what you want to:
If you ride with me on a Friday
anything goes.

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

The still-born child can't feel the rain as the chequered flag falls once again.
The deaf composer completes his final score. He'll never hear his sweet encore.
The chequered 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.

A small cigar can change the world
I know, I've done it frequently at parties
Where I've won all the guests' attention
With my generosity and suave gentlemanly bearing
A little flat tin case is all you need
Breast-pocket conversation opener
And one of those ciggie lighters that look rather good
You can throw away when empty
Must be declared a great success
My small cigars all vanish within minutes

Excuse me, mine host, that I may visit
A nearby tobacconist
To replenish my supply of small cigars
And make the party swing again

I know my clothes seem shabby
And don't fit this Hampstead soiree
Where unread copies of Rolling Stone
Well-thumbed Playboys
Decorate the hi-fi stereo record shelves
If you ask me they're on their way
To upper-middle-class oblivion
The stupid twits, they roll their only
One cigarette between them
My small cigar's redundant now
In the haze of smoking pleasure
Call it a day
Get the hell away
Go down the cafe
For a cup of real tea

By the tube station, there's a drunk old fool
Who sells papers in the rush hour
I hand to him ten small cigars
He smiles, says, Son, God bless you

A small cigar
Has changed his world, my friend
A small cigar
Has changed the world again

A small cigar . . .

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 -- we're all in the same game, lady.
Life's no bowl of cherries --- it's a black and white strip cartoon.

I've been warned that you and your friends are crazy
as from your hearts you bare your parts to the gentlemen,
who, while they drool, trying to keep cool,
spill their Scotch and water.
But I'm not that way, I must say --- I'd much prefer to see
you in your texturised rubber rainwear around 12.30.
Come and play shades of grey in my black and white strip cartoon.
Strip cartoon is all I'm after.
Strip cartoon is all I crave ---
so come to my place around 12.30
'cos I'm a leading politician
at a dangerous age.