Every morning at 5 am, he plays the smaller venues – telephone pole in my back yard, tree in my neighbor’s yard, another neighbor’s back fence. I hesitate to call him a second-rate singer; he certainly is adequate. But he never has any original material. He covers all the greats but doesn’t offer anything of his own.
His mate ooh’s and aah’s and coos, “Honey, do that Springsteen one again, puhleeeze?” She is into flash and surface; she doesn't mind that he hasn't any thoughts or songs of his own. Superficial little lady. He is a good provider though. They build a nest, hatch eggs, and later fly away.
“I’ll be here all summer. Tell your friends. Stop by for a drink. Do you have any requests? Bono? Sure I can do him.”