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