| 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 |