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I lit my purest candle |
|
Close to my window |
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Hoping it would catch the eye |
|
Of any vagabond who had passed it by |
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And I waited in my fleeting house |
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Before he came |
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I felt him drawing near |
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Asked him in |
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I felt the ancient fear |
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That he had come to my door and jeered |
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And I waited in my fleeting house |
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Tell me stories, I called to the hobo |
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Stories of Cold, I smiled to the hobo |
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Stories of old, I knelt to the hobo |
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And he stood before me |
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In my fleeting house. |
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No, said the hobo |
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No more tales of time |
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Don't ask me now to wash away the grime |
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I can't come in 'cause |
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It's too hard a climb |
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And he walked away from my fleeting house |
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Then you'll be damned |
|
I screamed to the hobo |
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Leave me alone, I wept to the hobo |
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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 |
