Strut %s golden gate rag,
We tickle the ivories by the dance hall,
With sweet southern charm filling every heart,
And till the break of dawn.
The dance hall winds whisper low,
As keep time tight we roam,
Through harlem nightlife we go,
Far from our childhood home.
Each cotton field rag shares a story,
Of ragtime fever and more,
The jazz club holds their glory,
Now and forevermore.
Through bones breaking we find our way,
By red beans bar we stand,
Though cotton field rag may stray,
We join hea...