You can lay down and die, or you can get up and fight, but that's it -- there's no turning back.

So what becomes of you my love when they have finally stripped you of the handbags and the glad rags that your Granddad had to sweat so you could buy.

I was born in March 1949, a post war baby boomer.

But thousands of people march to my songs, some just ignore me and shuffle along, some other tip me, hah, and sometimes they sing right along.

Out there in the spotlight you're a million miles away and every ounce of energy you try to give away as the sweat pours out your body like the music that you play.

I have crushed the cup of youth like a rose between my fingers but its nectar never warmed my weary heart.