She walks alone down a sleazy backstreetnAround a corner, up an alley to a dead endnThere under a small blue lightnShe enters an unmarked doorwayn(A low heartbeat, a low pounding escapes into the night)nThis is a place she goes to fulfill a very basic neednSomething people have been doing since the dawn of mannTo communicate without talkingnIf she needs somethingnShe makes a gesture with her handnAnd mouths what she wantsnShe wants to make a connectionnA certain kind of connectionnNo this is not about something from the black marketnThis is about no questionsnThis is about smoke and sweat and beatsnThis is about no messagennCHORUS:nTake your partner by the handnHe's a woman, she's a mannWhat's so hard to understandnTake your partner by the handnMona in the promised landnTake your partner by the handnKeep it simple if you cannTake your partner by the handnnAt the club they circle around some sex goddess like vulturesnFlashbulbs poppingnLike bees around their queennShe is completely indifferent to all the commotionnAnd orders some mango tango ice cream by sign languagenShe's approached by some wild-eyed poet drunk with lovenI like her easy refusal, the way she shakes her headnShe lives these days in the attic of an old dance hallnThat's been shut down for yearsnAnd swears there's times when she can hear feet shuffling belownAnd can see the shadows swaying, moving to the musicnnCHORUS (first half)nnElevator going upnFifth floornLady's handbags, shoes, leather accessories, and electronicsnWait a minute, where am I, on this elevator to nowherenGoing up, going downnThen like a hallucinationnI saw her out of the corner of my eyenStudying some shoes very carefullynShe definitely had a particular purpose for these shoes in mindnThen as quickly as she appeared, she disappearednBack into the slash and burn of New YorknAh, stuck in trafficnCrosstown, the stress of not movingnShe described it as like being locked in a carnWith a madman behind the wheelnAnd the radio tuned to staticnnCHORUS