I'm the concrete whisperer, guiding feet past bustling streets, where shadows meet and wheels retreat, yet I never take a seat.

I have two arms but cannot embrace, A sturdy back yet stay in one place. I welcome the weary at end of their day What am I, where they often stay?

A dapper half-moon perched upon the ledge, granting both clarity and style.

By broom I travel through the night, with whispered spells and flickering light. A pointed hat upon my head, old tales are where my name is said.

Cubans do it very well, or so I am often told, I assumed their illegality just drove up the cost. Not my thing, I do not enjoy them at all, so come in, dear boy, have a 'answer', you’re gonna go far.