When Stephen Foster died
in a flop-house on the Bowery
His worn-out wallet held
just a quarter and a dime
But the crocodiles have to eat,
the crocodiles have to eat
He smashed his head on the sink
in the bitter fever of gin
A wildebeest gone crazy with thirst
pulled down as he tried to drink
But deep down in the muddy stream
even crocodiles dream their dreams
And as the herd galloped off
he lay on that flophouse floor
Singing, "Beautiful Dreamer"
as the lions began to roar
But we all have our beautiful dreams
running through us like wildebeest
And when we meet at the river
to cross to that gleaming shore
The river, she always takes a few
as the herd thunders across
But the river has oceans to feed,
she has beautiful oceans to feed
And the oceans they feed the sky
and the sky feeds the earth
And Stephen Foster's beautiful ghost
lay down to feed a song
To feed ten thousand songs
echoing cross the wild plains