Near Barcelona, the peasant crooned
The old traditional Spanish tunes
The Neapolitan street song sighs
You think of Italian skys
Each nation has a creative vein
Originating a native strain
With folk songs plaintive and others gay
In their own peculiar way
American folk songs, I feel
Have a much stronger appeal
The real American folksong is a rag
A mental jag
A rhythmic tonic for the chronic blues
The critics called it a "joke song" but now
They've changed their tune
And they like it, somehow
For it's innoculated
With a syncopated
Sort of meter
Sweeter
Than a classic strain
Boy you can't remain
Still or quiet
For it's a riot
The real American folksong
Is like a fountain of youth
You taste, and it elates you
And then, invigorates you
The real American folksong
The masses coaxed on
Is a rag
The real American folksong is a rag
A mental jag
A rhythmic tonic for the chronic blues
The critics called it a "joke song" but now
They've changed their tune
And they like it, somehow
For it's innoculated
With a syncopated
Sort of meter
Sweeter
Than a classic strain
Boy you can't remain
Still or quiet
For it's a riot
The real American folksong
Is like a fountain of youth
You taste, and it elates you
And then, invigorates you
The real American folksong
Is a rag
