Do You Sing Any Dylan? --- Eric Bogle

 

 

At the [A]age 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, [D]“No, no. A [A]thousand times no!
               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?”

 
     [chorus]

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?” 

     [chorus]

Well [A]ever since then, a-[D]gain and again, they’ve [A]asked me the same boring [E]question.
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.” 

    [chorus]
 

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.
 

The [A]audience 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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