Break it %s golden gate rag,
We play it hot by the bucket of blood,
With band playing hot filling every heart,
And when the band quits playing.
The bucket of blood winds whisper low,
As play that thing we roam,
Through ragtime fever we go,
Far from our childhood home.
Each harlem dance shares a story,
Of bones breaking and more,
The main street holds their glory,
Now and forevermore.
Through fever rising we find our way,
By red beans bar we stand,
Though harlem dance may stray,
We join heart ...