(Verse 1)
Near Barcelona the peasant croons
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

(Chorus)
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
Boys, you can't remain
Still and 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
A masterstroke song
Is a rag!
(Verse 2)
You may dislike or you may adore
The native songs from a foreign shore
They may be songs you can't forget
They may be distinctive, yet
They lack a something, a certain snap
The tempo ticklish that makes you tap
The invitation to agitate
And leave the rest to fate
A raggy refrain anytime
Sends a message sublime

(Chorus)
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
Boys, you can't remain
Still and 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
A masterstroke song
Is a rag!