JETHRO TULL:
Too Old To Rock 'n' Roll: Too Young To Die!
Quizz Kid
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 spattered on the walls of encyclopaedia 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!
Crazed Institution
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 new dapper 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.
Salamander
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
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
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
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 did 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, 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.
Bad-Eyed And Loveless
Yes 'n' she's bad-eyed and 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 loveless
Turns other women to envious green
Yes and she's bad-eyed and loveless
A young man's vision - in my old man's dream.
Big Dipper
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.
Chorus:
Big Dipper riding - we'll give that 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.
If you're 39 or over, I'll make love to you next Thursday -
I may stay over for a week or two
Drop a postcard to me mum.
I'll meet you on the waltzer
We'll go big-dipping daily.
Too Old To Rock 'n' Roll: Too Young To Die
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.
Chorus:
Now he's too old to Rock'n'Roll but
he's too young to die
Yes, he's too old, etc.
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 greaser boys
All 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 but
they're too young to die
Yes, they're too old, etc.
So the old Rocker gets out his bike to make a ton before he takes his leave
Upon 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
As he hits the trunk road doing
around 120 with no room left to brake
And he was too old to Rock'n'Roll
And he was too young to die.
Pied Piper
Well if you think Ray blew it,
There was nothing to it.
They patched him up as good as new.
Now 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 blonde 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 ear, 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 following 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 Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)
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.