Morning-Glory — текст песни (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