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