| 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
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| And lower down again
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| Ladyfinger dipped in moonlight
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| Writing «What for?» |
| across the morning sky
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| Sunlight splatters dawn with answers
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| Darkness shrugs and bids the day good-bye
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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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| Wrap 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’s lost he shall regain
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| Seashore washed by the suds and foam
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| Been here so long he’s got to calling it home
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| Fortune comes a-crawling, 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? |