Letras:Ella Fitzgerald. The Real American Folk Song.

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 and 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 and 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