| Country garden 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 good-bye. |
| Speeding arrow, sharp and narrow, |
| What a lot of fleeting matters you have spurned. |
| Several seasons with their treasons, |
| Wrap the babe in scarlet colors, 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 hes lost he shall regain, |
| Seashore washed by the suds and foam, |
| Been here so long, hes got to calling it home. |
| Fortune comes a crawlin, calliope woman, |
| spinnin that curious sense of your own. |
| Can you answer? Yes I can |
| But what would be the answer to the answer man? |