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Friday morning, early summer
Momma's still laying deep dead asleep
With the curtains drawn and her head underneath the blanket
Crack the front door, up the stairwell
Past the stink of the frying and the dying
And I hit the roof of 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, somewhere near, in the ground
I can hear there's a sound no one's 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 say, "Melinda, when's it gonna be my turn?"


Friday midnight, try to find me
I'm the boy with his feet on the street
Hunting down the sound with his ear, like an antenna
Through the kitchens, past the bouncers
Those cabrons with the shades and the blades
Enjoying their latest shipment from Cartagena

Couples shouting, couples sweating
All the while, the band is playing
Old shit any wedding band can play
No one knows, and no one cares
But that kid by the stairs has a song inside him
That'll blow you all away


Down there on the street, someone's playing mambo
Someone's playing bebop
Like abuela's old LP
And I can hear the sound of of the bombs exploding
And I say, "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 that I got is a crazy fortune teller
And I said, "Melinda, tell me where I got to go"

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