Uncle Sam was a dreary old man,
he worked in the bank all day.
He counted the millions for everyone else,
and £19.10 was his take-home pay.
But when he got home
and the curtains were drawn,
he'd kick off his shoes
and pick up his horn.
He'd play a thing,
give it swing,
bein' under Boppy like the 4th of July.
Then one day he packed his bags and up and left the bank.
He boarded a liner for Carolina,
which in mid-Atlantic sank.
So he swam to an island and crawled up the sand,
and when the natives got restless,
he'd strike up the band.
He'd play a thing,
give it swing,
bein' under Boppy like the 4th of July.
Uncle Sam grew sad at heart,
he knew he'd be there forever.
But he'd stay alive cos he was smart,
and the natives weren't very clever.
And when ships came into sight,
the moors called he'd play,
but he never got far,
cos he got carried away.
He'd play a thing,
give it swing,
bein' under Boppy like the 4th of July.
Uncle Sam grew old and frail,
and there on the shore he died.
The native chiefs buried him deep,
with his trumpet by his side.
Still to this day, when the moon's in the trees,
the nearest sound
is heard on the breeze.
He'd play a thing,
give it swing,
bein' under Boppy like the 4th of July.