Underneath the Harlem Moon

Creole babies walk along
Rhythm in their thighs
Rhythm in their hips and in their lips and in their eyes
Where do highbrows find
The kind of love that satisfies?
Underneath the Harlem moon
They don’t pick no cotton
Picking cotton is taboo
They don’t live in cabins
Like the old folks used to do
Their cabin is a penthouse
Up on Lennox Avenue
Underneath the Harlem moon
They just live for dancing
They’re never blue or forlorn
Ain’t no sin
To laugh or grin
That’s why darkies were born
They shout «Hallelujah!» every time they’re feeling low
And every sheik is dressed up like a Georgia gigolo
You may call it madness, but I call it hi-de-ho
Underneath the Harlem moon