Near Barcelona, the peasant crooned
The old traditional Spanish tunes
The Neapolitan street song sighs
You think of Italian skiesEach nation has a creative vein
Originating a native strain
With folk songs plaintive and others gay
In their own peculiar wayAmerican folk songs, I feel
Have a much stronger appealThe 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, somehowFor it's inoculated with a syncopated sort of meter
Sweeter than a classic strain, boy you can't remain still and quiet
For it's a riotThe 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 ragThe 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, somehowFor it's inoculated with a syncopated sort of meter
Sweeter than a classic strain, boy you can't remain still and quiet
For it's a riotThe 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
Songwriters
GERSHWIN, GEORGE/GERSHWIN, IRAPublished by
Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.