Tim Buckley

Tim Buckley - Morning-Glory

rate me

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

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