Tall and thin black man on the corner
Just about half past ten in the evening
Wearing shorts and tennis shoes, no shirt
He had both hands wrapped around a broom handle
As if he was cradling a microphone on a mic stand
Singing his lungs out to the waxing crescent moon
He sang unrecognizable lyrics to an unrecognized song
With all the passion of a hyped up Al Hibbler
But none of the actual talent
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