"How can a folkie make a living?"

One answer:

I play me guitar and I play it right well
And ah sings with a luverly voice
Ah draws inspiration from a bottomless well
en ah'm ever bin one of the boys

The punters all hail me when I'm on the mic
when they've quaff-ed a bitter or two
They tell me "y'know, lad, go pro, boy, yer not bad!"
'tis a dream that I wish would come true.

It's all fine and well that ah sing in the pub
that's what the pub owners all say
But they grow hard 'o hearing, quite desperately weary
when ah tell 'em that tha'll have ta pay

"Ye've sung here for years and nae charged me nae once!"
They cry in the name of their pocket.
"Tis just music!" they whine, "for a moment in time"
And that's when ah tell 'em to fock it.

For ah play guitar and ah play it right well
but business is nae my true love
Ah'll play where ah like (and get stood a pint)
and tell greedy bastards to shove

For in all of the years of long history
A player can hardly bear livin'
without a patron who's best worth his natron
bare pockets and art are a given.