Folkies like jeans, since our humble beginnings.
Frayed at the seams, just to show you how honest we are.
While the poet of means, with his stock market winnings
Sports L.L. Beans. On his knee sits a trophy guitar.

The beard on his face, and the chip on his shoulder
Time may ease, like a song with some dangerous words.
The woman he’ll choose is an MBA holder.
She’s wearing shoes, and she may not remember the Byrds.

We once said that art isn’t made for commercial rewards.
Straight from the heart, and played with no augmented chords.
Pity the singer who thought he had nothing to lose.
He paces on wall-to-wall carpet but still gets the blues.

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 scenes,
And recall what it means when folkies wear jeans.