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 d___ed!" 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.

See also:
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17
17.31
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