His yellow flowers often grew
Beside this yellow bin he knew
Betwixt three trees who\'s faces bend
And twist until the winter blew
Who is this man that comes again
To watch; what was he watching then?
And should I wonder if he took
This path to palm my crooked hand?
No word of God from him, I looked
Inside his pockets or his purse
And so as for the hymns he sung
They must be from his fathers hook
He whistled lightly though among
His flowers trees and ending song
And wondered why they took so long
And wondered why they took so long.