°*°
The height tree on fire camp ground
Covered in grease and leaves like one ready for war
I blend with the branches colour
There is a great chant rising from the crowds
Ascending sparkles of flames like fire works
The beats rise and dancers go round the fire
With painted faces and bodies like the Zulu's
Indicating strength freedom and emancipation
My focus is on the full moon
Seems I could see ghosts riding on White horses
Guarding our southern heritage
Stay woke Dixieland,rise redeem our home
Our hearts have been bullied with horrified memories
For those forty six years
Fury, pain,wisdom, worry,disaster ate us up
Now jazz roars out of the old piano
Played by our Southern mad man
His finger tips strikes the keys fiercely
Initiating beats and sounds like a pounding heart
Coupled with it's slapping bass
The mixed feeling now sounding cool
We're loving the pain of jazz music
It's a sweet pleasing pain
Jazz frees Dixieland
