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I'm hanging in my hiding place

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
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Image credits
Pinterest
Pinterest