The Boxer

I am just a poor boy Though my story is seldom told I have squandered my resistance For a pocketful of mumbles, Such are promises,all lies, and jest Still, a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest Mm mm.... When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy In the company of strangers, In the quiet of a railway station Running scared, laying low, Seeking out the poorer quarters Where the ragged people go Looking for the places only they would know Lie-la-lie Asking only workman's wages I come looking for a job But I get no offers Just a "come on" from the whores on Seventh Avenue I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there Ooo-la-la Then I'm laying out my winter clothes And wishing I was gone, going home Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me Leading me, going home In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of every glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame I am leaving, I am leaving But the fighter still remains