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