Tootle Lou

A poem about Tootle Lou,

A man forever on the run,

Always off to someplace new,

Always it seemed under the gun.

“What’s the hurry Lou?” I would say.

“I’ve got so much to do,” He’d sigh.

You could never get him to stay,

That man was always on the fly.

Kill himself I knew he would,

Running himself into the ground;

And I knew he understood

But still he wouldn’t hang around.

Now at his funeral here I am,

And there’s nothing more I can do,

But instead of good-bye goddamn,

This time finally, it’s tootle Lou.