Transcribed from Cab Calloway and His Orchestra, recorded November 12,
From Cab Calloway and His Orchestra 1930-1931; The Chronogical Classics 516.
Dark folk, white folk, but never a hand,
They say to this man,
"You're yaller, you're yaller, you're yaller, you're just a yaller."
Black folk, white folk, I'm learning a lot,
You know what I am, I know what I'm not,
Ain't even black, I ain't even white,
I ain't like the day and I ain't like the night.
Feeling mean, so inbetween, I'm just a high yaller.
Ain't even bad, I ain't even good,
I don't understand and I ain't understood,
Not a friend sticks to the end when you're yaller.
Take me to a church and make me pray,
Make me sing a psalm there;
You better leave my soul in a crude cafe,
I don't even belong there.
Oh Lord, can't you make a sinner a saint,
Why did you start me but run out of paint,
Pass me by, a no-'count yellow man.
Lord only knows, I'm trying to rest,
I want to be down with a load on my chest.
Make my bed; wish I were dead,
A yaller man.
Note: Cab Calloway's rendition of this piece is obviously an imitation of Al Jolson.
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