Two old dogs without a name

Trucking down the road to glory

Seeking not to blaze in fame

But to leave a blazing story



Being roadies is their game

Rough of trouser, hair of hoary

They're the ones you cannot tame

Backline front and morning Tory



Theirs, the lifestyle that surpasses

They're the coolest of the classes

Yours is blonde and mine's got glasses

Give them both their backstage passes



Euro dogs without a draw

Punching down the road to Stuttgart

Not til Munich will they score

There's just enough to have a kick-start



Put the pedal through the floor

Whack this mother down the Ouststartt (?)

The bandit in at half-past four

Sound-check, sandwich and a sweetheart



Getting gear in, they're the masters

Couldn't rig it any faster

Break a leg in a disaster

Fix it with a sticking plaster



Two old dogs who know the gig

Piling feedback through the wedges

Hanging off the lighting rig

Miles of flex along the ledges



Twenty thousand and they're big

Get more in around the edges

Turn up sweaty at the lig

Such the perks and privileges



They're the hardest of the grafters

Lock the truck up to the rafters

Hear the sound of roadies after

In the hotel for their afters