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