Oh, my name it is Janice, my age I won't say,
And the state that I come from is known as N.J.,
I learned the guitar there, and I learned how to sing,
And soon I became part of that great folkie thing!

I boarded a bus there and started to roam,
Across the broad Hudson, about a mile from home,
Then I rode on the subway, down to a park,
Called Washington Square, in the town of New York.

For nearly four hours each Sunday I'd strum,
While tourists from over the world they would come,
The guitars and banjoes, how loudly they'd ring,
With the resounding din of that great folkie thing!

But those grand days are over, they're over for good,
And there's narry a folkie in that old neighborhood,
So I poke a computer, while the curses I fling,
And mourn for the days of that great folkie thing.