Near barcelona, the peasant croonedThe old traditional spanish tunesThe neapolitan street song sighsYou think of italian skysEach nation has a creative veinOriginating a native strainWith folk songs plaintive and others gayIn their own peculiar wayAmerican folk songs, I feelHave a much stronger appealThe real american folksong is a ragA mental jagA rhythmic tonic for the chronic bluesThe critics called it a joke song but nowThey’ve changed their tune, and they like it, somehowFor it’s innoculated with a syncopated sort of meter, sweeterThan a classic strain, boy you can’t remain, still or quiet, for it’s a riotThe real american folksongIs like a fountain of youthYou taste, and it elates you, and then, invigorates youThe real american folksong, the masses coaxed on, is a rag(instrumental break)The real american folksong is a ragA mental jagA rhythmic tonic for the chronic bluesThe critics called it a joke song but nowThey’ve changed their tune, and they like it, somehowFor it’s innoculated with a syncopated sort of meter, sweeterThan a classic strain, boy you can’t remain, still or quiet, for it’s a riotThe real american folksongIs like a fountain of youthYou taste, and it elates you, and then, invigorates youThe real american folksong, is a rag
