Too Old To

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.

Cut along the dotted line --- slip in and seal the flap.
Postal competition crazy, though you wear the dunce's cap. w
In 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.

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
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
Rins 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 f
S: 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 fr
Ight. 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 frid
Ything goes.

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.

The 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. gladiat
Ul. 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. th
Se 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
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 the sweet encore. the chequer
Ag, 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.