He went to have his future read
For he wanted his fortune told
So he went to a witch, a psychic of sorts
Who was said to be a hundred years old

She told him all he wanted to hear
She said, "By thirty you will be rich"
He tried to leave before he could pay
And in doing so angered the witch

"By thirty years old you'll have your wealth,
But your days are numbered at best"
"For when the last leaf falls from the sycamore tree,
You'll meet with life's ending rest"

Well the witch finally died, as the years went by
Her corpse now buried and rotten
Summer was ending as the leaves start to fade
And her prophecy all but forgotten

While raking his leaves that fell in his yard
A leaf came tumbling down
The very last leaf from the sycamore tree
That evening his body was found

They said that his heart just quit working
He turned thirty the day that he died
A million dollar check came in the mail
Life insurance, paid to his bride