He don’t play rags—that type’s not right.
On that tower of wood and strings,
Watch his fingers take flight: what a sight, my friend.
His digits surge; the tones are rife—
Only bliss on his face
His wrist is lithe; his touch is light.

And I think it’s gonna be a long, long line;
It touches untapped places in your mind.
We don’t mean bad things when we say he drones—
Notes, notes, notes notes. . . . he’s a raga man,
Raga man, churning out such tunes—I weep and moan.

Bars ain’t the kind you find in West’s music;
Those wouldn’t go so well;
Those cadences sound just a bit too slick.
Not diatonic. . .we don’t understand—
To us, we might quip, it’s all Greek,
The raga man, raga man.

And I think it’s gonna be a long, long line;
It touches untapped places you can’t find;
It’s got a whole lotta tiny-step tones,
Tones, tones, tones tones from the raga man,
Raga man, churning out such tunes that sweep yet drone.

And I think it’s gonna be in time 5/9. . . .