A bit of you’s the only drug I must abuse A bit of you is the only substance I cannot refuse When I walk on spring Beneath the stink a bit of you is all I smell Upon the shelf a bit of you I ask “They sell?” When I walk on spring
But there ain’t no style No there ain’t no style Well there ain’t no style And in fact there is just one other problem You live up in Harlem
Of course I had no knowledge of this at the time That came après July on the Upper West Side Waiting for the fall When from the Battery on up to your front door From mother ship the rocket launching twister whores Would blow up it all
‘Cause there ain’t no style No there ain’t no style Well there ain’t no style And in fact there is just one other problem I would have spared Harlem
Affections sent straight to Chekhov Say you need me Don’t you need me Wait I thought we were on Broadway No, my daddy said so “Still outside of Moscow”
Affections sent straight to Chekhov Say you need me Don’t you need me Wait I thought we were on Broadway No, my daddy said so “Still outside of Moscow”
And so the days creep up to my big final show And not a word from you the hours I must blow So I walk and see Upon the streets a faded island press on eyes A big old pool of yous, zillions I realize And just one of me
But there ain’t no style No there ain’t no style Well there ain’t no style And in fact there is just one other problem You’ve infected Harlem
Guess I won’t be waiting several hours Before nightfall for that A train Just the hiss of the dues band play