FOLK CLUB

Tonight I think I’ll go down to the folk club

Worth fifty pence of anybody’s pay

I’ll take my Yamaha, my brand new folk guitar

And wonder if they will let me play

The room is cold but the Calor heaters hissing

The only light the bottled candles glow

And in this little place we’ll move in time and space

From old England to the horn of Mexico

Ch: There are many voices raised in a (famous) chorus

There are guitars played so clean and bright

And pretty faces shine above the candles

There’ll be magic in that stuffy room tonight

And if I was given one or many wishes

From a magic lamp that somehow I could rub

I ‘d wish I were still singing in a chorus that is ringing

In the folk club up above the pub

There are blues men who’ve never seen the delta

And farmers who’ve never milked a cow

And shantymen in threes who’ve never sailed the seas

And ploughboys with bonny fields to sow

There’s cowboys up from on the Rio Grande

And soldiers from the plains of Waterloo

And tokens they are broken and lover’s words are spoken

And bedsit poets break our heart in two

I can smell the scruffy Afghans drying

In the brightness of the hissing Calor flame

And someone takes out an Eko Ranger

And picks his way through ‘Angie’ once again

There’s Tabor and Gaughan and the Dransfields

And the Young Tradition with those certain tones

There’s a flyer on the wall that I can still recall

For a young Essex singer called Nic Jones

We’re singing songs for and of the people

We raise the roof and hope the world will change

As we struggle for the classes in the bar they raise their glasses

And probably think us all a little strange

Ch (last)


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