Morning-Glory by Tim 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;
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