I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting house
Before he came I felt him drawing near;
As he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house
«Tell me stories,» I called to the Hobo;
«Stories of cold,» I smiled at the Hobo;
«Stories of old,» I knelt to the Hobo;
And he stood before my fleeting house
«No,» said the Hobo, «No more tales of time;
Don’t ask me now to wash away the grime;
I can’t come in ’cause it’s too high a climb,»
And he walked away from my fleeting house
«Then you be damned!» I screamed to the Hobo;
«Leave me alone,» I wept to the Hobo;
«Turn into stone,» I knelt to the Hobo;
And he walked away from my fleeting house