There is a rose in Spanish Harlem. A rose that grows in Spanish Harlem. It's never seen the sun. It only comes up when the moon is on the run. And all the stars are leaving. Well it grows right in the street. Up between the concrete. But soft and sweet and (breathing??). There is a rose in Spanish Harlem. A rose that grows in Spanish Harlem. Oh with eyes as black as coal. That reach down in my soul. And start a fire I can't control. I beg your pardon. Well I want 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.