The man who walks down life-breathing lane
Walks past the tree that has always remained
He plucks off a leaf from the great Tuttle tree
And the gentle words from his lips say “I’m sorry”
He places the leaf into a scuttle
And brings him home not able to subtle
The words that he would like to say
But all of his troubles were about to away
The man who is sorry knows what he has done
And waits for the mourn to see Tuttle’s favorite son
As he is weeping for his dearly departed
Everyone is waiting for the wake to get started
As Sorry is watching at the service below
He sees Tuttle turning brown even though
He is witnessing a family’s favorite man go
But has complete control like a child’s puppet show
As the priest says a blessing and later that night
A toast is given to the one who is buried tight
Underneath the ground and ever cold
Is waiting to be judged, eternally bold
