I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond that passed it by
And I waited in my lonely house

Before he came I felt him drawing near
And as he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to my door and jeer
And I waited in my fleeting house

"Tell me stories, " I called to the hobo
"Stories of old, " I smiled to the hobo
"Stories of cold, " I wept to the hobo
As 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 for it's too high a climb"
And he walked away from my lonely house

"Then you be damned, " I screamed to the hobo
"Turn into stone, " I cried to the hobo
"Leave me alone, " 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

Copyright: BMG Rights Management, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Larry Beckett, Tim Buckley