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,
Passing near. I felt the ancient fear,
That he had come to my door and jeered.
And I waited in my fleeting house.
«Tell me stories», I called to the hobo,
«Stories of cold», I smiled to the hobo,
«Stories of old», I knelt to the hobo,
And he stood before me in 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.
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.