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

But disregards the rest

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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

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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

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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

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Lie lie lie lie lie

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