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
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