Оригинален текст
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