Sunday Morning Paper

Sunday morning paper said "Rock 'n' Roll is surely dead!" Somethin' hit me deep down in my soul Lord I know, it's just Rock 'n' Roll Never one time did I ever Dream you wouldn't live forever Betcha never planned on gettin' old Looked like you were born to lose Your slicked back hair and your prison blues Mother tried to keep you from that road Lord I know, it's just Rock 'n' Roll Well you showed up from the underground Bakersfield, Tulsa-town An inch away from needin' crowd control Lord I know, Oh Lord I know! Women, wine and Benzedrine Out to break the Big Machine Gettin' off the low-down for the truth Fightin' at it fingernail and tooth Somewhere between 10 and 2 Someone's wishin' they were you Make a livin' off your highs and lows Lord I know, it's just Rock 'n' Roll Never one time did I ever Dream you wouldn't live forever Betcha never planned on getting old Bangin' on a baby grand Play that thing to beat the band Screamin' out for everything you're worth Well you dressed up like the greatest show on Earth Sunday morning paper said "Rock 'n' Roll is surely dead!" I don't think I'll ever let it go Even though it's just Rock 'n' Roll --- Sunday Morning Paper - Turnpike Troubadours