You get a shiver in the dark, Its raining in the park, but meantime: South of the river, you stop and you hold everything. A band is blowin Dixie, double-four time. You feel alright when you hear that music play. You step inside, but you dont see too many faces. Comin in out of the rain to hear the jazz go down. Competition in other places... But the horns, they blowin that sound. Way on down south, Way on down south, London-town Check out Guitar George, he knows all the chords. But its strictly rhythm; he doesnt want to make it cry or sing. If any old guitar is all he can afford, When he gets up under the lights to play his thing. And Harry doesnt mind if he doesnt make the scene. Hes got a daytime job, hes doing alright. He can play the honky tonk like anything, Savin it up for Friday night. With the Sultans, With the Sultans of Swing And a crowd of young boys, theyre fooling around in the corner, Drunk and dressed in their best brown baggies and their platform soles. The dont give a damn about any trumpet playing band. It aint what they call rock and roll. And the Sultans, Yes the Sultans play Creole. And then the man, he steps right up to the microphone. And says at last, just as the time bell rings, Goodnight, now its time to go home. And he makes it fast, with one more thing: Were the Sultans, We are the Sultans of Swing.
Posted on: Tue, 20 Jan 2015 08:22:59 +0000
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