Roll %s cotton field rag,
We play that thing by the main street,
With crowd going wild filling every heart,
And for ragtime lovers.
The main street winds whisper low,
As play that thing we roam,
Through bones breaking we go,
Far from our childhood home.
Each time piano shares a story,
Of ragtime fever and more,
The bucket of blood holds their glory,
Now and forevermore.
Through band playing hot we find our way,
By bucket of blood we stand,
Though jazzy melody may stray,
We join heart to heart...