The Boxer

I am just a poor boy

Though my story's seldom told

I have squadered 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 the railway station

Running scared, laying low

Seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places only they would know.

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.

Now the years go rushing by me

they are rocking evenly

I am older than I once was,

but I'm younger than I'll be, that's not unusual.

No it isn't strange.

After changes upon changes we are more, or less the same.

After changes we are more, or less the same.

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

And cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

But the fighter still remains.