| Creole babies walk along with rhythm in their thighs
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| Rhythm in their hips and in their lips and in their eyes
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| Where the highbrows find the kind of love that satisfies?
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| We don’t pick no cotton; |
| picking cotton is taboo
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| We don’t live in cabins like the old folks used to do
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| Our cabin is a penthouse up on St. Nicholas Avenue
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| We just live for dancing
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| We’re never blue or forlorn
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| Ain’t no sin to laugh and grin
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| That’s why we schwaters were born
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| We shout, «Hallelujah!» |
| every time we’re feeling low
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| And every sheik is dressed up like a Georgia gigolo
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| White folks call it madness but I call it hi-de-ho
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| Once we wore bandanas, now we wear Perusian heads
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| Once we were barefoot now we’re sporting shoes and specs
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| Once we were republicans but now we’re democrats
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| We don’t pick no cotton; |
| picking cotton is taboo
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| All we pick is numbers and that include you white folks too
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| 'Cause if we hit, we pay our rent on any avenue
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| We just thrive on dancing
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| Why be blue and forlorn
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| We just laugh and grin, ha!
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| Let the landlord in
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| That’s why house rent party’s were born
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| We also drink our gin up on Rita’s when we’re feeling low
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| Then we’re ready to step out and take charge on any so and so
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| Don’t stop for law, no traffic wind, we’re rearing to go
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| Underneath the Harlem moon
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| Underneath the Harlem moon |