Folkies like jeans, since our humble beginnings.
Frayed at the seams, just to show you how honest
While the poet of means, with his stock market
Sports L.L. Beans. On his knee sits a trophy
The beard on his face, and the chip on his shoulder
Time may ease, like a song with some dangerous
The woman he’ll choose is an MBA holder.
She’s wearing shoes, and she may not remember
We once said that art isn’t made for commercial
Straight from the heart, and played with no augmented
Pity the singer who thought he had nothing to
He paces on wall-to-wall carpet but still gets
Hey man, come on down where the singing is still
what it’s for.
We’re all getting older; we won’t make you sit
on the floor.
The times they have changed. Leave the corporate
And recall what it means when folkies wear jeans.