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There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a red rose up in Spanish Harlem. It is a special one, it's never seen the sun. It only comes out when the moon is on the run and all the stars are gleaming. It's growing in the street, right up through the concrete, but soft and sweet and dreaming. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a red rose up in Spanish Harlem. With eyes as black as coal that look down in my soul and start a fire there and then I lose control, I have to beg your pardon. I'm going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem. I'm going to pick that rose and watch her as she grows in my garden. There is a rose in Spanish Harlem.
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