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
