I've seen an old rock-n-rolla today
He looked all tired and worn out
He no longer uses trendy hair spray
And it takes him two breaths to shout
His back is hunched and eyes are dim
His hands shake from alcohol and age
You should be a floozie to talk to him
Each year down and down goes his wage
His jumps are no longer big and daring
His gimmicks are known to everyone
His manner is no longer that overbearing
At the stage door for him waits no one
His new albums are considered trashy
He is hated by «Rolling Stone» since '60s
His despair for attention is too flashy
Though his ex-groupies are in their '60s
At concerts he sings just golden oldies
Instead of gin or whiskey he drinks tea
Now his voice is hoarse and mouldy
He is hardworking and insignificant like a bee
Don't know why I find him my muse
I might be his for once like his guitar strings
But there is nothing from which I can choose
When he holds his microphone and sings
«ROLL OVER, BEETHOVEN»