Saint Stephen

Saint Stephen was one of Jesus's apostles and the First King of Hungaria.

The history books have this to say about him:


 * Saint Stephen with a rose, in and out of the garden he goes,
 * 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 goodbye.


 * 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 he's lost he shall regain,
 * Seashore washed by the suds and foam,
 * Been here so long, he's 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?

No one knows what this means.