The mangle man

 He moves in the crowd

As a sparrow

Murmurating on the edges

Fluttering down on the wing tips

Of sorrow

And he wishes he could sing with the larks

Wishes he could, but he can't

Has his wing been clipped

Is he too tight-lipped

Or does he prefer to sit in the dark

Like an owl?

I can't tell

He doesn't howl at the moon

As I know

But does he scowl at June 

When she shows

Him all her festoon

And flowers in boughs

Does he prefer the country fair

Does he dance in the mid-summer air

Listen to the pipes and the fiddle

Is he a musical type or a riddle?

Who really knows of the mangle man

The beaten-can man, the beer guzzler

Or dog muzzler, upright blues man

They just call him the mangle-man