THE FOLKSINGER
(Fred Wedlock)
(To the tune of THE BOXER, by Simon and Garfunkel)

I am a folk musician, but my songs are seldom sold
For I massacre folk music with 3 feet of Spanish chipboard and a capo.
I do requests, but just those with only two chords--I disregard the rest—
And with Dylan's luck, someday I'll be the best.

Seeking free food and expenses, I come looking for a gig, but I get no offers;
Just a come-on from a groupie here in (insert place name).
I do declare, I've had trouble with my sex life since I fell and broke my wrist—
Hey, my other songs are just as bad as this!

CHO.: Lye lye lye, etc.

I left my home with a repertoire of my all-time favourite songs,
And a music stand with a neon sign that says "Let's play along, I'm doing favourites…"
Sinking low, playing Weaver's hits for quarters to a reggae dance tempo,
Looking for the chords I guess I'll never know. CHO.

And when I sing traditional, I stick my finger in my ear
Because half the songs I sing, I just can't stand to hear—but I'm an artist!
Bar after bar, to the rhythm of a Chrysler--one string out of tune—guitar
Lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye lye… CHO.

And in (insert place name), I clean forgot the 42nd verse,
So I sang the 27th --TWICE AS LOUD--and in reverse and no one noticed.
I stood and bowed. I took a long look at my wrist watch, took a survey of the crowd—
Thank God they never listen! But they still say it's too loud! CHO.

I stand here on the stage—a folkie by my trade—
And I carry the reminders of every gig I played,
Like last Thursday at the Legion, when I fled in mortal fear
With the imprint of a Guinness bottle stamped upon my ear
And a crowed that yelled—"DON'T PLAY THAT STUFF ROUND HERE!" CHO.