I won't go to Macy's any mo-ah, mo-ah,
mo-ah, There's a big fat policeman at the
do-ah, do-ah, do-ah, He pulls you by the coll-ah, and make
you pay a doll-ah, So I won't go to Macy's any mo-ah,
mo-ah, mo-ah.
The song came drifting out of a littered yard between two tenements. The young man passing in the street stopped for a moment to listen, then turned into the yard and unslung the tape recorder he always carries over one shoulder. The children's voices recorded on that muggy summer afternoon are preserved in an album called New York 19 (Folkways). The man who recorded them...
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