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When Stephen Foster died  
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in a flop-house on the Bowery 
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His worn-out wallet held  
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just a quarter and a dime 

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But the crocodiles have to eat,  
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the crocodiles have to eat 

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He smashed his head on the sink  
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in the bitter fever of gin 
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A wildebeest gone crazy with thirst  
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pulled down as he tried to drink 

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But deep down in the muddy stream  
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even crocodiles dream their dreams 

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And as the herd galloped off  
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he lay on that flophouse floor 
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Singing, "Beautiful Dreamer" 
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as the lions began to roar 

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But we all have our beautiful dreams  
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running through us like wildebeest 

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And when we meet at the river  
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to cross to that gleaming shore 
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The river, she always takes a few  
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as the herd thunders across 

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But the river has oceans to feed,  
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she has beautiful oceans to feed 

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And the oceans they feed the sky  
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and the sky feeds the earth 
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And Stephen Foster's beautiful ghost  
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lay down to feed a song 

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To feed ten thousand songs  
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echoing cross the wild plains 

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