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
And 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
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