Harold Wimple, object of scorn,
Begged forgiveness for being born;
Apologized for the life he was leading,
Said he was sorry his hair was receding,
Tipped his hat to the ladies he met,
Sang in the choir and never bet.
He watched one channel on television
Fearing to make the wrong decision.
He never dated and never married
And made the arrangements about being buried
Before he was actuarially dead
(“One never can tell about these things,” he said)
When the day of his passing finally came
There were six pallbearers who knew him by name.
As each paid respects as they stood by his side,
He rose up and uttered, “I’m sorry I died.”