There are those who crowd the coffehouse In search of verse or rhyme While others spew metered verse Without the test of time. They all proclaim the muse has struck And gush out verse galore Though others far away from there Make folk songs by the score.

These others hid away from view Are surely with us now. You won't hear much about them Now that "folk"'s a Sacred Cow. But there are those who grow with grace, Their tradition keeps the score And they are making folksongs As they used to do before.

Frank