Ben Sidran - The King of Harlem lyrics

The rhythm of New York, Now that's what he was talking about The street of New York The beat in the street of New York Like the heat in New York In the bathhouses, in the backrooms In the chicken joints and the cotton clubs Beneath the buildings, behind the bridges Beneath the smoke and the moon Beneath the beneath But tunneling up Tunneling up From the dry feet of New York The beat of New York Now that's what he was talking about Pena negra, That tortured thing At the heart of the thing Deep beneath the thing But rising Rising Like the Charleston Charleston, Charleston The beating heart of New York That's what he was talking about The New York Charleston That wounded pulse at the Heart of New York That's what he was talking about Throbbing, throbbing Beneath the howling moon Where the King of Harlem liked to play it On a wooden spoon Up from the streets Up from the feets Where that great arsenic lobster Finally learned how to fly And now the moon is just A slice of radiance divine Up in the sky That's what he was talking about That's what he was talking about Go tell Dali go tell Bunuel Go tell the millionaires it's time to sell The final foot Is on the stairs It's time to drink the silver whisky Throw the gla** into the brine ‘Cause it's time, It's time, it's time, it's time in New York You got no time? Baby you got nothing but time You're hushed by time, crushed by time Now that's what he was talking about Pena negra That tortured thing At the heart of the thing Deep beneath the thing But rising, rising From bathhouses and backrooms Like refugees they arrived on broken ships And departed with little more than their wits Ay! Dios mio! A broken moon And the word was rising, rising That's what he was talking about Now that's what he was talking about Go tell Dali go tell Bunuel Go tell the millionaires it's time to sell The final foot It's on the stairs The spire of smoke is in the air El mascaron! El mascaron! Mirad el mascaron From Africa to the backrooms and backstairs Of cotton clubs and chicken joints In the moment of dry things And dead things The beat of New York No retreat in New York From the heat in New York Relentless Relentlessly Without mercy Across wired bridges Above sky scrapers Un milagro! Assesinado por el cielo A broken moon Howling! Howling! El mascaron, el mascaron A wounded pulse A broken tune Now that's what he was talking about