(L. Beckett, T. Buckley) 

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 

Passing near

I felt the ancient fear 

that he had come to my door and jeered 

and I waited in my fleeting house 



Tell me stories, I called to the hobo 

Stories of Cold, I smiled to the hobo 

Stories of old, I knelt to the hobo 

and he stood before me 

in 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 



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