Strut %s time piano,
We make it hot by the saloons on the row,
With glitter and glam filling every heart,
And like a steamboat honk.
The saloons on the row winds whisper low,
As ring them bells we roam,
Through ragtime fever we go,
Far from our childhood home.
Each harlem dance shares a story,
Of fever rising and more,
The dance hall holds their glory,
Now and forevermore.
Through fever rising we find our way,
By bucket of blood we stand,
Though river boat strut may stray,
We join heart to he...