| I’ve seen the bright lights of Memphis
|
| And the Commodore Hotel
|
| And underneath a street lamp, I met a southern belle
|
| Oh, she took me to the river, where she cast her spell
|
| And in that southern moonlight, she sang this song so well
|
| If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tennessee lamb
|
| And we can walk together down in Dixieland
|
| Down in Dixieland
|
| Well, we made all the hotspots, my money flowed like wine
|
| Then the lowdown southern whiskey, yea, began to fog my mind
|
| And I don’t remember church bells or the money I put down
|
| On the white picket fence and boardwalk
|
| On the house at the end of town
|
| Oh, but boy do I remember the strain of her refrain
|
| And the nights we spent together
|
| And the way she called my name
|
| If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tennessee lamb
|
| And we can walk together down in Dixieland
|
| Down in Dixieland
|
| Many years since she ran away
|
| Guess that guitar player sure could play
|
| She always liked to sing along
|
| She’s always handy with a song
|
| But then one night in the lobby, yea, of the Commodore Hotel
|
| I chanced to meet a bartender who said he knew her well
|
| And as he handed me a drink he began to hum a song
|
| And all the boys there, at the bar, began to sing along
|
| If you’ll be my Dixie chicken I’ll be your Tennessee lamb
|
| And we can walk together down in Dixieland
|
| Down in Dixieland, down in Dixieland |