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