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 folk song 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 folk song is like a fountain of youth
You taste, and it elates you, and then, invigorates you
The real American folk song, the masses coaxed on, is a rag

The real American folk song 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 folk song is like a fountain of youth
You taste, and it elates you, and then, invigorates you
The real American folksong, is a rag