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



(instrumental break)



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