Where is Thy Sting-a-Ling-a-Ling?

A neighbour of mine who did tree work for a living was killed up a sixty-foot maple after a branch he was cutting from the crown fell the wrong way, wrapping its anchor rope around his chest and asphyxiating him. He was a young man, the father of two small children, and his funeral, at our town in the Catskills, was crowded with friends and relatives in a state of raw grief. In the slow-moving line outside the funeral home people were sobbing, clutching each other, and exchanging details of the accident in incredulous whispers. The fire department didn't have a tall enough ladder to reach his body. They had to borrow a bucket ladder from a local contractor. He was blue by the time they grappled him down...