Tim Buckley Follow

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