| I lit my purest candle close to my window
|
| Hoping it would catch the eye
|
| Of any vagabond that passed it by
|
| And I waited in my lonely house
|
| Before he came I felt him drawing near
|
| And as he neared I felt the ancient fear
|
| That he had come to my door and jeer
|
| And I waited in my fleeting house
|
| Tell me stories, I called to the hobo
|
| Stories of old, I smiled to the hobo
|
| Storie of cold, I wept to the hobo
|
| As 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 for it’s too high a climb
|
| And he walked away from my lonely house
|
| Then you be damned I screamed to the hobo
|
| Turn into stone I cried to the hobo
|
| Leave me alone 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 |