Man sits on the porch and taps his feet,
Strikes his old string box in the sultry heat,
Like a million times before he kicks the red dust from the floor.
Well he scuffs the wood and his fingers pick up pace,
He stretches out and scowls with each new phrase,
Like a million times before he holds her close until the dawn.
Come on, play her in the evening long and loud,
Rest her in the morning when she's down,
Play her when good comrades come around,
She's a fading sound.
Shrill as the wind the fiddle makes her cry,
With a flurrish and a fable in the night,
Like a million times before we can see her figure soar.
Come on, play her in the evening long and loud,
Rest her in the morning when she's down,
Play her when good comrades come around,
She's a fading sound.
The single tone of reeds it fills the air,
These shaking, sharpening lips they do declare,
Like a melody before as those notes begin to roar.
Come on, play her in the evening long and loud,
Rest her in the morning when she's down,
Play her when good comrades come around,
She's a fading sound.

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