We know him by his two-matched tribal marks

On both clay cheeks, the elder citizen,

And by how he has chairmanned a spot with a chair he never changes

Just in front of his hollow, half-alive house.

His back is breaking, his legs show cracks

Of several seasons of suffering.

Yet, Baba is hope’s daring denizen.

He always asserts: “E go betta,”

With reeled rehearsed rehashed murmur.

His spouse safely spaced in the ground, his pending pension

Seem to be one to surface at later ages

When he has finally joined in the sleeping.

Baba is not a drunk. At seventy-seven, Baba still stagger-

s with “e go betta”.

E go betta?

E NO GO BETTA FOR “e go betta!”