I should like to expound briefly on a theory
I have held for some time to the effect
That the reason most folk songs are so atrocious
Is that they were written by the people
And if professional songwriters had written them instead
Things might have turned out considerably differently for the example
Consider the old favorite
"Clementine", you know
In a cavern, in a canyon
Da-da-da da-da-da-da ...
A song with no recognizable merit whatsoever
And imagine what might have happened if for example
Cole Porter had tried writing this song
The first verse might have come out like this:
In a cavern
In a canyon
Excava-ha-ha-heighting for a mine
Far away from the boom-boom-boom
Of the city
She was so pretty
What a pity
Clementine!
O-oh, Clementine!
Can't you tell from the howls of me
This love of mine
Calls to you from the bowels of me
Are you discerning the returning
Of this churning burning
Yearning for you
A-a-aw ...
Well, supposing at this point that Mozart
Or, one of that crowd had tried writing a verse
The next one might have come out as a baritone-aria
From an Italian opera
Somewhat along these lines:
Era legera e come un fairy
E suo shoes numero nine
Herring bo-ho-ho-hoxes sans-a to-ho-ho-hopses
Sandalae per Clementina si
Per Clementina si
Per Clementina sandalae
Per Clementina sandalae
Per Clementina!
Clementina, Clementina Cleh-eh-eh-eh-mentina
Herring boxes sans-a topses sandalae per Clementina
Herring boxes sans-a topses sandalae per Clementina
Che sciagura Clementina
Che sciagura Clementina
Cara Clementina
Cara Clementina-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!
Well, supposing note this rather dramatic juncture in the narrative
That one four modern "cool school" of composers had tried writing a verse
The next one might have come out a-like this:
Drove those ducklings to the water, yprach!
Doodilehdoodoot, yah-hah ...
Every mornin', like nine a.m., awhoopah
Doodileh doo-doo, doodilidah
Got a-hung upon a splinter
Got a-hung upon a splinter, klooglimah!
Hoo, hoot!
Fell into the foamy brine
Dig that crazy Clementine, man!
End to end on a happy note, one can always count on
Gilbert and Sullivan for a rousig finale – full of words and music
And signifying ... nothing!
That I missed her depressed her young sister named Esther this mister to pester the tried
Now a pestering sister's a festering blister you're best to resist her, say I!
The mister resisted, the sister persisted when I kissed her all loyalty slipped
When she said I could have her, her sister's cadaver must surely have turned in its crypt!
Yes, yes, yes, yes!
But I love she and she loves me
And raptured are the both of we
Yes, I love she and she loves I
And will through all eternity!
See what I mean?