The Boxer

I am just a poor boy

Though my story's seldom told

I have squandered my resistance

For a pocket full of mumbles

Such are promises

All lies and jests

Still a man hears what he wants to hear

And disregards the rest

When I left my home and my 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 7th Avenue

I do declare

There were times when I was so lonesome

I took some comfort there

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 'til he cried out

In his anger and his shame

I am leaving, I am leaving

But the fighter still remains