| There’s a boy that’s in our band
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| And how he blows that horn
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| Finest since you’re born
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| When he starts you’re gone
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| They all call him «Hot Lips» for
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| He blows real red-hot notes
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| And ev’rybody on the floor just floats
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| (That's what they say)
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| He’s got hot lips when he plays Jazz
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| He draws out steps like no one has
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| You’re on your toes and shake your shoes
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| Boy, how he goes when he plays Blues
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| I watch the crowd until he’s through
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| He can be proud they’re «cuckoo,» too
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| His music’s rare you must declare
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| The boy is there with two hot lips
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| He’s got hot lips when he plays Jazz
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| He draws out steps, like no one has
|
| You’re on your toes, and shake your shoes
|
| Boy, how he goes when he plays Blues
|
| I watch the crowd until he’s through
|
| He can be proud they’re «cuckoo,» too
|
| His music’s rare you must declare
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| The boy is there with two hot lips
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| Heard him play the other night
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| And old man Oscar Clive who is eighty five
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| Sure as you’re alive
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| Got so frisky when he started out to do his stuff
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| Was told to sit right down for being rough
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| (And then he said)
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| He’s got hot lips when he plays Jazz
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| He draws out steps, like no one has
|
| You’re on your toes, and shake your shoes
|
| Boy, how he goes when he plays Blues
|
| I watch the crowd until he’s through
|
| He can be proud they’re «cuckoo,» too
|
| His music’s rare you must declare
|
| The boy is there with two hot lips |