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
|