Something is waiting for him at the corner,
And the street, like life, is a lonely place;
Though it is crowded no one can defend him
When he comes face to face
With what is waiting for him at the corner.

There may be something strange as a black man waiting
With a club that hurts like death, for his head;
Or a shrouded figure may slip from a doorway
And follow in his tread.
Certain it is that something is waiting at the corner.

And yet it may be only a smiling hour,
Like a girl with blossoms in her hair,
To slip an arm in his and walk beside him
Making him unaware
Of something that is waiting at the corner.