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I was cruisin' in a car |
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Down Melrose Boulevard |
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When I stopped all the traffic |
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I was laughin' so hard |
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Standin' on the corner |
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Was this rock n roll dude |
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In leather pants thinkin' he was cool |
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He had the jacket |
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He had the shades |
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Farrah Fawcett hair |
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Or was that a wig |
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Face like a turtle |
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Trying in vain to look stoned |
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You could tell he'd been practicing |
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At home in the mirror |
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He'd probably been posing like that all day |
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Didn't matter that is was a hundred degrees |
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In the shade |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
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Bogus bands, plastic rock stars |
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Stupid clothes and the worst made cars |
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Country rock making us all sick |
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While John Travolta wags his double-knit prick |
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Being a teen back than |
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Man, it was a drag |
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Bicentennial and no one burned the flag |
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You think we live in pretty desperate times |
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When people wanna go back to nineteen seventy five |
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My Saturday Night Fever fantasy |
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Lock the Bee Gees in a Pinto |
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And ram it from the rear |
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Burn, baby |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
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Suck my ego, pay to play |
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Got nothing more to say |
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As we sell you a stairway to boredom |
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Look around at the hip people |
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Set in their ways |
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Reaching back to the things they used to say they hate |
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Young old brats playing fossil rock |
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Pistols reunions pass for rebellion |
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Radio and TV gettin' to damn bland |
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With collegiate boy Neil Young copy bands |
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Underground's becoming an alternative joke |
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Even Aerosmith hates all the Aerosmith clones |
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I know they don't make 'em like the Son of Sam |
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But even punks wanna go back to seventy seven |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
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Well c'mawn, well c'mawn |
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Seventies rock must die |
