Morning Glory

Tim Buckley – Morning Glory

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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