Text: Tim Buckley. Morning - Glory.

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
And as he neared, I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer
But I waited in my fleeting house

"Oh, tell me stories", I called to the Hobo
"Stories of old", I smiled at the Hobo
"Stories of cold", I wept to the Hobo
And I waited 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, it's just too high a climb"
And hestood before my fleeting house

"Then you be damned", I screamed to the Hobo
"Turn into stone", I wept to the Hobo
"Leave me alone", I knelt to the Hobo
But he walked away from my fleeting house