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Chapter 40
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There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, |
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a rose in black and Spanish Harlem. |
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It is a special one, |
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it never sees the sun |
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it only comes out |
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when the moon is on the run
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and all the stars are gleaming.
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It's growing in the
street
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right up through the concrete
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soft, sweet and dreaming.
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With eyes as
black as coal |
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they look down in my soul a |
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and start a fire there |
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and then I lose control |
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I want to beg her pardon
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I'm going to pick that rose |
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and watch her as she grows in my garden.
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There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, |
| |
|
|
|
a rose in black and Spanish Harlem. |
| |
|
|
|
It is a special one,
it never sees 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
soft, sweet and dreaming.
|
| |
|
|
|
With eyes as
black as coal
they look down in my soul
|
| |
|
|
|
and start a fire there
and then I lose control |
| |
|
|
|
I want to beg her pardon
I'm going to pick that rose
and watch her as she grows in my garden.
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| |
|
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