Do You Sing Any Dylan? --- Eric Bogle
of nineteen, I was [D]young,
I was keen and I [A]had
just one burning am-[E]bition;
To [A]be a folk singer, a [D]dope-smoking swinger, singing [A]songs that were [E]steeped in tra- [A]dition
So I [D]bought a guitar and I [A]practiced real hard; I [D]wasn;t much good, but was [E]willin’.
‘Til [A]to my chagrin, my [D]girlfriend came in and she [A]said, “Can you [E]sing any [A]Dylan?”
[chorus] And I said,
no. A [A]thousand
I’d rather see my life-blood [E]spillin’
I’ll [A]sing anything, even [D] ‘God Save The King’
But I [A]just won’t sing [E]any Bob [A]Dylan.”
And [A]with my guitar I [D]traveled real far, [A]trying to gain recog-[E]nition.
I [A]sang “Matty Groves” from St. [D]Paul to Glen Cove, in [A]pubs, clubs, and [E]in seamen’s [A]missions.
I [D]traveled the road for [A]seven long years; [D]the pace it really was [E]killin’.
And where-[A]ever I went, from [D]Scotland to Kent, they would [A]say,”Can you [E]sing any [A]Dylan?”
Well [A]I soldiered on but the [D]magic was gone leavin’ [A]naught but a deep sense of [E]failure.
So I [A]thought I would go to where [D]all faiures go, and I [A]took me a [E]ship to Aus-[A]tralia.
When I [D]landed in Sydney the [A]Sun it shone down, on a [D]view that was lovely and [E]thrillin’.
On [A]seeing my case, with a [D]smile on his face, Customs [A]said, “Can you [E]sing any [A]Dylan, mate?”
since then, a-[D]gain
and again, they’ve [A]asked
me the same
And I [A]usually reply,with a [D]glint in my eye and a [A]rather in-[E]decent sug-[A]gestion.
But the [D]last straw it came at a [A]local motel where I [D]had a young girl who was [E]willin’.
Put my [A]hand up her dress and she [D]said, “I’ll say ‘yes’ – if [A]first you will [E]sing me some [A]Dylan.”
But I [A]tell you my friend, [D]that was the end of my [A]traditional aspir-[E]ations.
If [A]bein’ a Folkie meant [D]givin’ up nookie there was [A]one way to [E]end my frus-[A]trations.
So the [D]very next night at a-[A]nother folk club where the [D]audience around me was [E]millin’
I [A]took off my coat and I [D]ruptured my throat and I [A]sang a song [E]just like Bob [A]Dylan.
went wild – man, [D]woman
and child; they [A]clapped
‘til their poor hands were [E]bleedin’.
They [A]said, so to speak, that my [D]style was unique, and [A]just what the [E]Folk Scene was [A]needin’.
So [D]all you young Folkies who [A]play a guitar, if you [D]want to achieve a top [E]billin’
Just [A]murder good prose and [D]sing through your nose, and [A]then you’ll sound [E]just like Bob [A]Dylan.
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