| Rolled out of bed, threw some water on my face
|
| Twenty-five sit-ups and I run in place
|
| I put the coffee on but the pot ain’t clean
|
| Yeah, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine
|
| A handful of vitamins, drop them on the floor
|
| My ex-girlfriends are laughin' from the icebox door
|
| I put their photos up there, yeah, we talk all the time
|
| But they ain’t talkin' back now, the pugilist is 59
|
| Cold chicken salad, a glass of iced tea
|
| Phone bills, gas bills, electricity
|
| And the mortgage and the junk mail, one old Father’s Day card
|
| Yeah, go sweat it out, kid, it’s 108 in the yard
|
| Water the lawn, trim them old trees
|
| Pray that your gut don’t fall down to your knees
|
| And Archie Moore whispers in your ear: Get up, kid, you’re in your prime
|
| Now, now the champ’s on the ropes, Arch, the pugilist is 59
|
| And the rock and the roll
|
| And the fight for your soul goes on and on
|
| You put on the gloves
|
| You’re always ready for love
|
| Pray your passion ain’t used up and gone, yeah
|
| The harder we love, the harder we fall
|
| It’s cauliflower hearts and old medicine balls
|
| And back street affairs in all the water tank towns
|
| Well, there’s a mighty thin line between a heavyweight champ and a used up old
|
| clown
|
| But this is Hollywood, kid, fear strikes out
|
| Miracles turn around one-sided bouts
|
| Get off the floor, kid, the sweet science of them old romantic lines
|
| Hey, the champ’s comin' back, boys, the pugilist is 59
|
| And the rock and the roll
|
| And the fight for your soul goes on and on
|
| You put on the gloves
|
| You’re always ready for love
|
| Pray your passion ain’t used up and gone, yeah
|
| Roll out of bed, water on your face
|
| Twenty-five sit-ups — run in place
|
| You put the coffee on but the pot ain’t clean
|
| I said, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine
|
| Yeah, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine
|
| I said, all you little devils of alcohol and caffeine |