Near Barcelona the peasant crooned
The old traditional Spanish tunes
The Neapolitan street song sighs
You think of Italian skies
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 inoculated 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 inoculated 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
