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