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