By Quincy Troupe

take it to the hoop, "magic" johnson

take that ball dazzling down the open lane

herk and jerk and raise your six foot nine inch

frame into the air sweating screams of your neon name

"magic" johnson, nicknamed "windex" way back in high school

‘cause you wiped glass backboards so clean

where you first jucked and shook

and wiled your way to glory

a new styled fusion of shake and bake energy

using everything possible you created your own space

to fly through- any moment now we expect your wings

to spread feathers for that spooky take-off of yours

then shake and glide till you hammer home

a clothesline duce off glass

now, come back down with a reverse hoodoo gem

off the spin, and stick it in sweet popping nets

clean from twenty feet right side

put the ball on the floor "magic"

slide the dribble behind your back, ease it deftly

between your bony stork legs, head bobbin

everwhichway.

Up and down, you see everything on the court, off the high

yoyo patter, stop and go dribble, you shoot

a threading needle rope past sweet home to kareem

cutting through the lane, his skthook pops the cords