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DO YOU KNOW ANY DYLAN? (The Traditional Folksinger's Lament for the Passing of the Three-Chord Traditional Folksong) (Eric Bogle) Recorded by: Eric Bogle; Ian Mackintosh; Todd Menton. At the age of nineteen, I was young, I was keen And I had just one burning ambition To be a folk singer, a dope-smoking swinger Singing songs that were steeped in tradition So I bought a guitar and I practiced real hard I wasn't much good, but I was willin' Till to my chagrin, my girlfriend came in And she said, "Can you sing any Dylan?" And I said "No, no a thousand times no! I'd rather see my life blood spillin' I'll sing anything, even God Save the King But I just won't sing any Bob Dylan!" And with my guitar I traveled real far Trying to gain recognition I sang "Matty Groves" from St. Paul to Glen Cove In pubs, clubs, and in seamen's missions I traveled the road for seven long years The pace, it really was killin' And wherever I went from Scotland to Kent They would say, "Can you sing any Dylan?" And I said "No, no a thousand times no! I'd rather see my life blood spillin' I'll sing anything, even God Save the King But I just won't sing any Bob Dylan!" Well I soldiered on but the magic was gone Leaving naught but a deep sense of failure So I thought I would go where all failures go And I took me a ship to Australia When I landed in Sydney, the sun it shone down On a view that was lovely and thrilling But seeing my case, with a smile on his face Customs said, "Can you sing any Dylan, mate?" And I said "No, no a thousand times no! I'd rather see my life blood spillin' I'll sing anything, even God Save the King But I just won't sing any Bob Dylan!" Well ever since then, again and again They've asked me the same boring question And I usually reply with a glint in my eye And a rather indecent suggestion But the last straw came one night at a local motel Where I had a young girl who was willin' Put my hand up her dress, and she said "I'll say yes If first you will sing me some Dylan" And I said "No, no a thousand times no! I'd rather see my life blood spillin' I'll sing anything, even God Save the King But I just won't sing any Bob Dylan!" But I tell you my friend, that was the end Of all my traditional aspirations If being a folkie meant giving up nookie There was one way to end my frustrations So the very next night at another folk club Where the audience around me was millin' I took off my coat and I ruptured my throat And I sang a song just like Bob Dylan "Fo-o-o-or the ti-i-i-mes they are a-changi-i-i-ing" And the audience went wild, man, woman and child They clapped 'til their poor hands were bleeding And they said, so to speak, that my style was unique And just what the folk scene was needing So all you young folkies who play a guitar If you want to achieve a top billin' Just murder good prose and sing through your nose And then you'll sound just like Bob Dylan

    


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