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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