"Too Old for the Barrow Downs, Too young to die." to the tune of "Too old to Rock and Roll, Too young to die" by Jethro Tull.
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The old Wight wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Un-dead to the end --- drank his ale too light.
Death's head belt buckle --- yesterday's dreams ---
The Morgul king's prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
In his post-war-babe gloom.
Now he's too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
but he's too young to die.
He once owned a Hobbit hole and Sandyman's Mill.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he's the last of the blue blood lifeless boys
all of his mates are doing time:
buried 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 dwarven shoes.
Now they're too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
and they're too young to die.
So the old Wight gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the North downs by Angmar
just like it used to be.
And as he flies --- tears in his eyes ---
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the west road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.
And he was too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
but he was too young to die.
No, you're never too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
if you're too young to die.
No, you're never too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
if you're too young to die.
No, you're never too o-o-old for the Barrow down-down-downs
But he was too young to die!!!!
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