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
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, underwine you -
Better not bring the wine - 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, publicly dissected
Brain sells spattered 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 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 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 emopty 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 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 led; it's a big ruch, 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
Red lights - and the pavements meet
pin stripes - short step shuffle into the night
Tea time calls - the Bingo Halls open at 7 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 did FBI
And tired young sax-players 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 you 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 a pint that you need, ask me again
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 Cristmas
She's a breath of Champagne on a sparkling night
Yes'n she's bad-eyed and loveless
Turns other women to envious green
Yes'n she's bad-eyed and loveless
A young man's vision - in my old man's dream
The mist rolls off the beachers; 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 Beat, 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
Throwing up in the bathroom, landlady's in the backroom
I'm the Big Dipper, it's the weekend rage
Rich windowed 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 post card to me mum, I'll see you on the waltzer
We'll go big-dipping daily...
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 rade.
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 dreams
The transport "Caf" prophet of doom
Ringing no change in his double-sews seams
in his post-war-babe gloom
Now he's too old to rock'n'roll, but he's too young to die
He once owned a Harley Davidson and A Triumph Borneville
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
So the old Rocker gets out his bike to make a ton
Before he takes his leave
Upon the Al by Scotch Corner just like it used to be
And as he flies - tears in his eyes - his mind -
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, but he was too young to die
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 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
The disk 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 tracks
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 running ever-faster to the shore singing
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive
Too Old To Rock'n'Roll