Friday morning, early summer
Mama's still laying deep, dead asleep
With the curtains drawn and her head underneath the blanket
Out the front door, up the stairwell
Past the stink of the frying and the dying
'Till I hit the roof, pull my transistor out and crank it
Friday morning, seven-thirty
New York City, grand and dirty
Creeping out of the shadows like a whore
Look around, I can hear, in the ground
Somewhere near, there's a sound, something no one ever noticed before
Down there on the street
Someone's playing salsa
Someone's playing disco
Someone's making something burn
Someone plugged in a guitar and is shooting fireworks
And I said Melinda, when's it gonna be my turn?
Oh
Friday, midnight, try to find me
I'm the boy with his feet on the street
Hunting down the sound with his ears like an antenna
Hit the back door, past the bouncers
Those cabrons with the blades and the shades
Enjoying their latest shipment from Cartagena
Couples shouting, couples swaying
All the while the band is playing
Old shit any wedding band could play
No one knows, no one cares
But that kid by the stairs has a song inside him
That'll blow you all away
Down here on the street
They've been playing mambo
Someone's playing bebop
Like Abuela's old LP
I can hear the sound of the Bronx exploding
And I said, Melinda, when they gonna notice me?
♪
Out there on the street
Someone's tagging subways
Someone's jumping fences
Someone's cursing at the moon
Meanwhile, some clown gets a million dollar contract
And I said, Melinda, this story better change soon
Out there on the street
They've been shooting cop cars
They've been torching high schools
There ain't nothing that can grow
All I got is a crazy fortune teller
And I said, Melinda, tell me where I got to go