(L. Beckett, T. Buckley)

I lit my purest candle

close to my window

hoping it would catch the eye

of any vagabond who had passed it by

and I waited in my fleeting house

Before he came

I felt him drawing near

Asked him in

I felt the ancient fear

that he had come to my door and jeered

and I waited in my fleeting house

Tell me stories, I called to the hobo

Stories of Cold, I smiled to the hobo

Stories of old, I knelt to the hobo

and he stood before me

in 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 hard a climb

and he walked away from my fleeting house

Then you'll 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

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