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Saint Stephen with a rose |
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In and out of the garden he goes |
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Country garland in the wind and the rain |
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Wherever he goes, the people all complain |
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Stephen prospered in his time |
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Well he may and he may decline |
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Did it matter, does it now? |
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Stephen would answer, if he only knew how |
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Wishing well with a golden bell |
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Bucket hanging clear to hell |
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Hell halfway, twixt now and then |
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Stephen fill it up and lower down and lower down again |
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Lady finger, dipped in moonlight |
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Writing, "What for?" across the morning sky |
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Sunlight splatters, dawn with answer |
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Darkness shrugs and bids the day goodbye |
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Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow |
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What a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned |
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Several seasons with their treasons |
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Wrapped the babe in scarlet covers, call it your own |
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Did he doubt or did he try? |
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Answers aplenty in the bye and bye |
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Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills |
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One man gathers what another man spills |
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Saint Stephen will remain |
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All he lost he shall regain |
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Seashore walk by the suds and the foam |
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Been there so long, he's got to calling it home |
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Fortune comes a calling, calliope woman |
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Spinning that curious sense of your own |
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Can you answer? Yes I can |
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But what would be the answer to the answer-man? |
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High green chilly winds and windy vines |
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In loops around the twining shafts of lavender |
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They're crawling to the sun |
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Wonder who will water all the children of the garden |
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When they sigh about the barren lack of rain |
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And droop so hungry 'neath the sky |
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Underfoot the ground is patched |
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With climbing arms of ivy wrapped around the manzanita |
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Stark and shiny in the breeze |
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William Tell has stretched his bow |
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'Til it won't stretch no furthermore |
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And or it may require a change that hasn't come before |
