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Tim Buckley( Timothy Charles Buckley III )



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Tim Buckley( Timothy Charles Buckley III )

Morning Glory

Lyricist:Larry Beckett, 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
And as he neared, I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer
But I waited in my fleeting house

'Oh, tell me stories', I called to the Hobo
'Stories of old', I smiled at the Hobo
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'Stories of cold', I wept to the Hobo
And I waited in 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, it's just too high a climb'
And hestood before my fleeting house

'Then you be damned', I screamed to the Hobo
'Turn into stone', I wept to the Hobo
'Leave me alone', I knelt to the Hobo
But he walked away from my fleeting house