Under the greasy harmathan
I once saw a man
Standing by the gates of fleeting hope
With a voice that hung on a tiny rope
Of blistered fingers
And sweaty palms
Dancing in strums
That reeked of slums
A hat on the floor
Begged the swinging door
For food to eat
And ears for his beat
And when l stopped to lend my ear
The rhythm picked up gear
While the hat begged my hand
To touch its hand
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