If you're crying for dear old Southland
Candy yams and lovin' Sams
and 'Ginia hams and such;
If you're sighin' for your dear old Southland,
Sunny skies and mammy's pies
you idolize so much,
You don't have to cry so very hard,
The South is in your own back yard.
Creole babies walk along with rhythm in their thighs,
Rhythm in their feet and in their lips and in their eyes;
Where do high-browns find the kind of love that satisfies,
Underneath The Harlem Moon.

There's no fields of cotton, pickin' cotton is taboo,
They don't live in cabins like old folks used to do,
Their cabin is a penthouse up on Lenox Avenue,
Underneath The Harlem Moon.

They just live on dancing,
They're never blue or forlorn,
'Tain't no sin to laugh and grin,
That's why darkies were born.
They shout Hallelujah ev'ry time they're feeling low,
Ev'ry sheik is dressed up like a "jo ja" gigolo;
You may call it madness but they call it "hi de ho,"
Underneath The Harlem Moon.
Moon.