With every note we kick up dust-
our flying boots drum out the beat.
Guitars and fiddles do their best
to match our flying bayou feet.
N'Orleans rag is highest tide,
black gators chomping through the muck.
It's chickens dancing in the fry,
fat Tuesday strut and Joker's luck.
Then when the levee broke that night
the bands were all swept out to sea.
They kept the rhythm sweet n' tight,
and Cajun made the water sing.