A saxophone cries
To the dark outside
Brown skin shines in the yellow street lights
Beneath zoot suits and swirling skirts
Heading to a party
That'll pay the rent
And fuel the growing
Fire in their souls

A large black man
Scats on stage
And his hepcat
Jazz band plays
While W.E.B.
Yells at Booker T.
And everyone takes sides.

But neither are wrong,
Booker's just trying
To keep the peace,
Keep his people alive
Long enough
For America
To realize.

But it's different up north
The whites are alright
They spend their nights
Watching black men scat
And Snake Hips dance
And everyone claps
In clubs where blacks
Can only perform.

But if you can't sing
Or dance, or play
Or write, or act
Well then you're just another
Negro.

But right now nothing really matters
Except the saxophone
You hear
Walking down the street
Footsteps in beat
With the rhythm of your heart

Your blood is pumping
Whitey's crew is jumping
And the rent isn't due for a week.
So everything's alright
Tonight
In Harlem.

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