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Down in Louisiana |
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There's a grand piano-playing man; |
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He knows that they can't kid him |
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'Cause he's got hot rhythm in his hand. |
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The blues that he'll compose will thrill you |
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From your head to your toes. |
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He called his song "Black Rhythm," |
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'Cause his black hands did it 'neath the moon, |
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The keys he plays on sweetly, |
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And you're left completely in a swoon. |
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The melancholy strum |
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Mixed with the rum-tum of melodious blues. |
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When he plays the blue note, |
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And adds a new note, |
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You'll think that he wrote a symphony. |
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But he's just improvising |
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On a southern mammy melody. |
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You'll quit your pouting, |
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And start a'shouting, |
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No need in doubting he knows the keys. |
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He can lay on the white ones, |
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Can play on the black ones with ease. |
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The way he plays Black Rhythm |
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Makes the gang stick with him all night long, |
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Forget the hour is late, |
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They hear him syncopate his mournful song. |
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A'humming like the breeze, |
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A' strumming lightly on those ivories. |
