The Boxer

I am just a poor boy, though my story's 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.

When I left my home and 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 came looking for a job,

but I get no offers, just a comeon from the whores of Seventh Avenue

I do declare there were times when I was so lonsome

I took some comfort there...

Lie-la-lie ...

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 the boxer and a fighter by his trade,

and he carries the reminders of ev'ry glove that laid him down

and cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame:

?I am leaving, I am leaving!? but the fighter still remains.

Lie-la-lie