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Frostbyte's 1980s DOS Shareware Collection
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TOO_OLD.TUL
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Text File
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1991-06-28
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8KB
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238 lines
_Too Old to Rock 'n' Roll: Too Old 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 splattered on the walls of
encyclopaedic knowledge.
May be barbaric but it's fun. As the clock ticks away a
liftetime,
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 hed 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.
"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 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 reall 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
youir 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"
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 clalls--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--up-town--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 th
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 the local lads a hiding
If they keep us from the ladies
Hanging out in the penyy 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' prophert 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 Banneville.
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--the 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 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