He was always dressed in black Long black jacket, broad black hat Sometimes a cape And as thin, and as thin as rubber tape: Black Max He would raise that big black hat To the big shots of the town Who raised their hats right back Never knew they were bowing to Black Max I'm talking about night in Rotterdam When the right night people of all the town Would find what they could In the night neighborhood of Black Max There were women in the windows With bodies for sale Dressed in curls like little girls In little dollhouse jails When the women walked the street With the beds upon their backs Who was lifting up his brim to them? Black Max! And there were looks for sale The art of the smile -- (Only certain people walked that mystery mile: Artists, charlatans, vaudevillians Men of mathematics, acrobatics and civilians) There was knitting-needle music From a lady organ-grinder With all her sons behind her Marco, Vito, Benno (Was he strong! Though he walked like a woman) And Carlo, who was five He must be still alive! Ah, poor Marco had the syph, and if You didn't take the terrible cure those days You went crazy and died and he did And at the coffin Before they closed the lid Who raised his lid? Black Max! I was climbing on the train One day going far away To the good old U.S.A When I heard some music Underneath the tracks Standing there beneath the bridge Long black jacket, broad black hat Playing the harmonica, one hand free To lift that hat to me: Black Max Black Max Black Max