Down in Louisiana
There's a grand piano-playing man;
He knows that they can't kid him
'Cause he's got hot rhythm in his hand
The blues that he'll compose will thrill you
From your head to your toes
He called his song "Black Rhythm,"
'Cause his black hands did it 'neath the moon,
The keys he plays on sweetly,
And you're left completely in a swoon
The melancholy strum
Mixed with the rum-tum of melodious blues

When he plays the blue note,
And adds a new note,
You'll think that he wrote a symphony
But he's just improvising
On a southern mammy melody
You'll quit your pouting,
And start a'shouting,
No need in doubting he knows the keys
He can lay on the white ones,
Can play on the black ones with ease
The way he plays Black Rhythm
Makes the gang stick with him all night long,
Forget the hour is late,
They hear him syncopate his mournful song
A'humming like the breeze,
A' strumming lightly on those ivories