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