Doh Tita in brown shoes, brown trousers, beige shirt,
The only gentleman shining integrity five miles around.
Doh Tita, everybody knew him, even in the town’s outskirts.
Memory of his war-wrought limping gait,
While he bragged of his world war prowess,
Telling of shrapnel, burnt flannel and some fallen mate.
And as he talked, a tear would have been born
On his eyelid; so much sadness plagued his heart!
But he energetically went on, disclosing the cold tales of that morn.
Like a forgotten folder, he sits and ruminates
About unrewarded sacrifice, the lethal hail all about,
At school with his friends, years of training a pellet deflates!
Wolves kill dogs, must man kill man?
Doh Tita would tell of the glassy looks of the stiff
And we’d listen without lassitude to the Shaman.